


The Boy From New York City

by Traincat



Category: Fantastic Four (2015), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Past Peter Parker/Gwen Stacy, Past Peter Parker/Harry Osborn, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 15:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 84,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16768228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Traincat/pseuds/Traincat
Summary: Central City, California is beautiful, but it’s not where Johnny wants to be – and he’s not who he wants to be, either. Inspired by the recent return of Spider-Man, Johnny convinces the newly minted Fantastic Four to return to the Baxter Building, the site of the incident that gave them their powers. But not everything is what it seems, and worse yet, Spider-Man wants nothing to do with the Human Torch.In the wake of Gwen’s death, Peter has finally put the mask back on, but nothing’s the same as it once was, and the thrill has gone out of Spider-Man. The Fantastic Four’s arrival only makes everything worse. The Human Torch is good looking, he’ll give him that much, but Peter has no plans of making friends. A series of strange attacks and a fateful encounter on the docks may not leave him much choice.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Way back in 2013, Andrew Garfield, the Spider-Man of both the time and the incredible eyebrows, [told EW that he wanted Spider-Man to be bisexual](https://ew.com/article/2013/07/10/andrew-garfield-spider-man-gay/). Truly, the Spider-Man we needed but clearly did not deserve. He also had some ideas for who should play his love interest -- Michael B Jordan, who would later be cast as Johnny Storm in Fantastic Four (2015). Of course we never got TASM3, and Andrew Garfield almost definitely wouldn't have gotten to kiss MBJ like he wanted to in it anyway, but ever since then I've really, really wanted to write a long, serious fic where TASM!Peter and Fant4stic!Johnny fall in love. And not one where they get married, like idiots, at 20 with a ring pop engagement ring. Because I have already written that one. (Andrew Garfield [also said in interviews that he played his Peter as Jewish](https://nypost.com/2014/04/16/andrew-garfield-spider-man-is-jewish/), and so Peter is also that in this fic. Thanks for the good headcanons, Andrew Garfield!)
> 
> I have been working on some variation of this fic since 2015. It wasn't originally what I planned to write for this year's Spideytorch Big Bang, but I also wanted to finish it - finally, finally! - so bad, and I found I couldn't focus on any other longfic. So here it is, finished at last. It's kind of incredible to me. A big relief, sure, but I've been playing with it for so long that it's going to be a little sad when I close the WIP doc. 
> 
> Thank you so much to my artist, Sci, who did some incredible pieces for this fic! You can [find them here](http://sciderman.tumblr.com/post/180581736897/i-had-the-honour-of-illustrating-traincats-the). Please check them out. And a huge thank you to everyone who listened to me complain about this fic, who I sent snippets to for months and months, and especially to Boat, like always. ♥

“Try this on.” 

The shirt Reed held out was grey, lumpy and slippery at the same time, and it had a really horrible neckline. Johnny looked at it, then back up at Reed and said, “How about you try it on?” 

“He already did,” Sue said, fading into sight just behind him. She was wearing her own lumpy, slippery, ugly grey sweatshirt. “Put the shirt on, Johnny. We need to see how it holds up to your powers.” 

Reluctantly, Johnny took the shirt. It had a weird texture, a little like tiny scales. He wrinkled his nose.

“Does it come in any other colors?” he asked. 

Sue crossed her arms. “Do you want to be stuck wearing that suit for the rest of your life? Or keep having to replace all your clothes all the time because you turn them to ash whenever you light up?”

“It’s just the first step,” Reed said, looking at Johnny with his big earnest eyes. _Let me fix it_ , Reed’s face was always saying. _Let me try_. “I promise, if it works, I can make it in colors.” 

“And actual fabric, please?” Johnny said, working off the top half of his suit. “Not whatever the fuck this is.” 

“It’s knitwear,” Reed said, and then just when things were sounding normal, “treated with a solution of unstable molecules I’m experimenting with.”

Unstable molecules. Yeah, that sounded real safe.

Johnny sucked in a breath; keeping things under control without the suit was still a little shaky, but he was getting there. One step at a time. At least he wasn’t walking around with the fingers of one arm trailing all over the floor like Reed, and at least here, in their fun and sterile new mountain hideout, the risk of him hurting anyone was low.

“We can learn to control our powers,” Reed kept saying, but the worst thing that would happen if he lost control was looking like the flying spaghetti monster. Johnny was a Smoky the Bear ad waiting to happen.

Half out of his c-suit, though, and no flames. No sparks. Johnny let out one long, slow breath, and shimmied into the shirt.

It felt like what he thought the inside of an eel must feel like. “Eeeugh.”

Sue snickered, ducking her head. 

“This isn’t funny,” Johnny said to her, tugging the shirt down around his waist. 

“I beg to differ,” she said, snorting a little around the words. 

“Okay, Johnny,” Reed said, that light in his eyes again. “I need you to flame on, hold it for twenty seconds, and then turn your powers off.”

Johnny could do that. “Okay. Flame on.”

Intellectually, Johnny knew that when he burned, he burned hot - inferno hot, burning building hot, habanero hot. Exploding star hot, potentially, or that’s what the men in the white coats had said. But to him, flaming on just felt warm. Like getting into a hot bath, pleasant heat all over. It was the only way he really felt temperature anymore. Cold felt muted, a thought more than a feeling, and he’d been tested and tested against normal fire: no matter how high the lab coats had cranked it up, it just tickled. It didn’t burn. The men in full military dress had said things like “very impressive” and that Johnny “had a lot of potential.”

First time anyone had ever said, except for his dad.

He counted to twenty, then snuffed his flames. The shirt was intact, not even scorched. He breathed out and Reed smiled, a little too wide for his face but no less bright for it. 

“Fantastic,” he breathed, his new favorite word since Ben had said it their first day at Central City. 

“It’s a really good start,” Sue said, taking the shirt when Johnny pulled it off over his head. He pulled his suit back up, thinking suddenly, longingly, of actual clothes in actual colors, jeans and real shoes and things that wouldn’t melt straight off him for the first time in a year. All his old clothes, wherever they were – as if he’d ever get them back.

Johnny let out a long slow breath and collapsed backward into a chair.

“That mean you’re finally gonna get Rocky some pants?” he said.

Ben, leaning up against the wall and watching the whole show, snorted. “What, you don’t like what you see?” 

Johnny let his eyes rake slowly over Ben’s huge form, lingering a little. Ben shifted awkwardly; if rocks could blush, he would’ve been bright red. 

“Not exactly sure what I’m seeing,” he smirked, spinning his chair around. Ben made an annoyed noise deep in his chest.

Reed and Sue were off in their own little world, two big brains poking at a lumpy piece of cloth like it was the most interesting thing they’d ever seen. Johnny shifted so he was straddling the chair backwards, arms crossed and chin resting on top of them. 

There was a TV in the corner of the lab and the news was on, showing a bird’s eye view of a New York City street at a standstill. Johnny grabbed the remote and turned it up just as the picture zoomed in.

There was some kind of giant metal rhino in the middle of the street.

“Hey, look,” he said as Ben came up behind him. “We found you a prom date.” 

Ben gave a great shuddering sigh of annoyance. “World’s gettin’ too weird.” 

The metal rhino was waving his arms around like he thought he was some kind of big deal. Johnny felt angry-hot all over. Ben was the only one next to him, Sue and Reed still safely across the lab, and Johnny didn’t know if he could hurt Ben even if he tried, so he let a few sparks fly. Ben’s breath rumbled in his chest like he agreed. 

“I could take him,” he said, cracking his huge stone knuckles. Johnny snorted.

“I could melt him,” he said. “Aim for the joints and immobilize him.” 

“Heh,” Ben said. “I’d still hit him first.” 

A flash of movement caught Johnny’s eye as the camera spun, and whatever he’d been about to snipe back at Ben died in his throat. A kid had climbed over the police line, into the middle of the road.

There was a little kid in the middle of the road, dressed in a Spider-Man Halloween costume, and he was about to be trampled by a giant rhino. 

Johnny reached out without thinking and grabbed Ben’s huge arm.

“Get out of the road, you stupid kid,” Ben said to the screen. “Get out of the road. Why isn’t anybody doing something?” Then, he repeated: “I could take that guy.” 

Johnny squeezed his arm until his fingers ached and said, numbly, “I could melt him.” 

Ben’s exhale was shaky, but Johnny looked at him, at his big stern profile, and he knew they were thinking the same thing. It made him feel sick, sitting safe in the lab, watching some little kid about to be killed because no one was doing anything. 

He looked back at the screen, full of dread, and instead his heart leapt up into his throat. Down on the ground in New York there was a familiar lanky figure in red and blue standing over the kid. 

It was Spider-Man -- the first sighting of him in months, according to the internet. Johnny had been devastated when, after a year of no contact with the outside world, he’d finally gotten back online only find out Spider-Man had disappeared. He’d known he couldn’t be gone for good, though. He’d just known.

“Yes!” he said, his chair clattering to the ground as he jumped up. Ben shot him an alarmed look. “He’s back!” 

On the news, the little boy was being handed off to his mother and Spider-Man was grabbing a megaphone. The news was only just barely picking up his voice: _“-- put your mechanized paws in the air!”_

Johnny let out a whoop, throwing hands in the air. Ben was looking at him like he was crazy, but he didn’t care. Spider-Man was back. 

“You a fan of that schmuck?” Ben asked. 

On the news Spider-Man swung a manhole cover like a discus. Johnny grinned and flipped Ben one flaming finger. 

“What’s going on over here?” Sue asked. She caught sight of the TV and snorted, saying, “ _Oh_ ,” like that explained everything. 

“What?” Reed asked, stretching over to them. Johnny had been watching him contort himself up like a pretzel for weeks now, but it was still a weird sight. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Spider-Man,” Johnny said, beaming. He felt warm down to his toes. “He’s back.”

\--

“So, Spider-Man, right?” Johnny said over dinner. 

There was a cafeteria, technically, but it was awkward sitting with people three times their age, some of whom clearly resented their presence and new control -- and some who were just plain scared of them. Most of the time the four of them just grabbed whatever was microwavable and gathered around the nearest sanitized table down in the lab.

Someone, Johnny thought, poking at reheated chicken, was really going to have to learn how to cook soon. Reed couldn’t have found them an off the books government project next to a pizza place?

“Spider-Man,” Reed said slowly, catching on that Johnny was waiting for someone to speak. He was busy putting Ben’s twelfth serving of the meal into the microwave, his hand across the room and his body still at the table.

“Do not engage,” Sue told him without looking up. “He will never shut up about it, trust me.” 

“So Spider-Man appears in New York a couple years back, right?” Johnny said, kicking Sue underneath the table. She shot him an exasperated look before she went back to staring at her plate like if she pushed her food around enough it might turn into something edible. 

“Right,” Ben said slowly. “I remember that. With that lizard guy, whathisname, Connors.” 

“Fighting the Lizard,” Johnny said. “Spider-Man fought the Lizard.”

“That’s not what the Bugle says,” Ben snorted. 

“You read the _Bugle_?” Johnny said, lip curling in disgust.

“What’s wrong with the Bugle? My family’s got a subscription, okay?” Ben growled, even as Reed covered his hand with his own, mouthing, _I know_. “Besides, they’re the only ones who get decent pictures of the guy.” 

“Still shit,” Johnny said, pointing with his fork. “The stuff they say about him -”

“Sorry,” Sue cut in. “I should have warned you guys up front - Johnny’s basically obsessed with Spider-Man.” 

Johnny scowled at her. “Look, the guy, he has these powers somehow, and he goes out and he - he saves people. He _uses_ them for something, instead of just sitting around in some lab!”

It was the wrong thing to say. Ben’s gaze fell to the table top, stony mouth set tight, and Reed stopped scribbling in the notebook he had open next to his plate. Sue’s mouth twisted to the side, her fork scraping noisily against her plate. The microwave dinged.

Johnny clenched his jaw against the sudden rush of angry heat that spread through his chest and down his arms. Sue was watching, though, and he thought she noticed, because all of a sudden she spoke.

“He used to swing by Baxter,” she said. “The north side of the building. I saw him a couple of times.”

“What?” Johnny said, leaning forward. “How come you never told me?” 

“You weren’t there,” she said, shrugging. 

“Aw, man,” Johnny said, collapsing back in his seat.

“I think Baxter was on his way home. He always swung by at night.” Sue glanced at Johnny, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards. “He’s got a cute butt.” 

“Thanks,” Johnny snorted. “Thanks a lot.”

\--

Spider-Man’s return wasn’t a one-off. All of a sudden he was everywhere in Manhattan, like he was trying to make up for all his missing months in one go. It made Johnny wonder where he’d been and what he’d been doing, and if he’d been stuck in some big concrete compound like Johnny. 

Probably not, but still, Johnny couldn’t help but think about it. 

Seeing Spider-Man on the news made Johnny think about a lot of things, actually. Miss a lot of things, too – miss New York. Miss things Johnny had never actually done – helping people, using his powers to do something meaningful. _You’re going to do great things, son,_ they’d told him. Now Johnny wasn’t doing anything at all, feeling stifled by Central City and frustrated at the others for letting him be the only one who seemed to realize how alone they were.

Spider-Man was strong, maybe as strong as Ben, and he was fast, and he swung around New York on some kind of spider’s web. 

“It’s a kind of biodegradable cable,” Sue said when he brought it up. “Not organic. One of the chemistry kids scraped it off the side of a building when he first appeared. Its makeup is really similar to something Oscorp patented. Like, basically the same thing similar.” 

She sounded unimpressed, almost bored, her tone flat as she worked on something else. Johnny, perched on the countertop next to her, rolled his eyes. Like Spider-Man was going to be any less cool if he stole from Oscorp.

“One, I don’t care,” Johnny said. “Two, how are you not getting how cool that is?” 

Sue looked up. “Maybe because I can manifest an invisible hamster ball and fly myself around in it.” 

“Sue,” he whined, throwing himself down in the chair next to hers. He planted his foot against her chair and pushed, sending them both spinning in opposite directions. She stopped herself with a force field, scowling.

“ _Johnny_ ,” she said. 

“What are we doing here, Sue?” he asked, gesturing at Reed’s work station with its piles of notes and half-built gadgets, at Sue’s with her mp3 player lying abandoned and her laptop still open. “I mean, what are we really doing? What am I supposed to do here?” 

“You can build things, Johnny, you’ve got a workshop,” she said, but he was shaking his head.

“I’m supposed to, what, just sit down here in the middle of nowhere and build cars while you and Reed work on ripping a way back through space so you can fix us, like there’s something wrong? I don’t want that.” Johnny put his hand flat to his chest. “I don’t belong here, Sue.” 

“You’re just getting distracted - you have to apply yourself,” Sue said, taking a step forward. “Dad always said -” 

“Dad’s dead!” Johnny shouted, and Sue froze, her eyes wide. For a split second, she flickered out of sight. “Dad’s dead, Sue, and we’re just – we’re stuck here.”

Sue was very still.

“We chose to be here,” she said. “It was our choice.”

“No, they gave us this,” Johnny said, gesturing around the room again. “They gave you and Reed a bunch of shiny toys and they stuck us in here.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Sue said. “We can leave, if we choose to.”

“So choose to!” Johnny said, flinging his arms out. “You’re a superhero, Sue!” She flinched and frowned, shaking her head. “We’re superheroes! We should be out there, doing things with these powers!”

“You want to be Spider-Man, is that it?” Sue asked. “Flying around New York, like him –”

“At least Spider-Man helps people!” Johnny said. “Who are we helping? Nobody. We can’t even help ourselves.”

“We’re a danger,” Sue said. “To other people. Normal people.”

“I know you think we’re freaks,” Johnny said. “But Reed says we can learn to control it. I _have_ been controlling it. I want to go home, Sue. I want to be with _people_ again.”

“I…” Sue said, trailing off. She’d never needed it the way he did, the presence of other people. But she knew. She knew how much he wanted that.

“Sue, please,” he said, voice breaking. “I want us to go home.”

He had to stoop nearly double to press his forehead against her shoulder. He suddenly missed when he was little and able to hide behind her - smart, fearless Sue. Before she got quiet and he got angry. 

One of Sue’s hands was on his back, the other curling around his neck. 

“I want to go home,” he told her. 

“I know,” she said. She pulled back, blinking hard. Johnny scrubbed his wrist across his eyes. “I know. Okay. Me too.” 

\--

They took it to Reed. Or Sue took it to Reed, anyway, and Johnny hung back with his arms crossed, trying not to be too hopeful. It felt a whole lot like the time he’d tried to convince his dad to let him leave Baxter and go to public school, except now he was just trying to get back to Baxter. 

Go figure. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Reed said.

“Why?” Johnny burst out before Sue could say anything.

“We’re a danger to other people,” Reed said, cold. He twisted his head away from them, further than the average man could manage.

“You’re the one who keeps saying we can learn to control it!” Johnny said, flinging his arms out. “You two walk around with these storm clouds over your heads, but did you ever think that this doesn’t have to be a bad thing? That we can – we can do good things with these powers.” He breathed out, willing himself to keep his temperature even, not to let his body heat spike and his shoulders start to smoke. He swallowed back sparks before they could reach his lips. “I can do good things.”

Sue’s hand slid up to cup his shoulder, grounding.

“That’s fine for us, maybe,” Reed said, gesturing between the three of them, “but what about Ben?”

Johnny swallowed hard. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Reed said. “ _Oh_.”

Johnny bit his lip, thinking of Ben – a literal brick wall of a man. What were they supposed to do, wrap a giant trench coat around him and pull a hat down over his eyes? He’d still tower far above the rest of the populace. Even his voice rumbled like a landslide. With their powers mastered, Sue and Johnny could move around a city like anyone else. Reed already had. But for Ben, there could be no hiding in plain sight.

“Reed,” Sue said, soft, the way she rarely was with anyone anymore. “Don’t.”

“I did this to him,” Reed said. “And I’m not going anywhere he can’t. Not until I fix it.”

He scrubbed at his face with both hands, his shoulders bowed. He looked tired, and older - Johnny noticed, not for the first time, how he was starting to go grey at the temples. He was barely twenty, only a year older than Johnny. 

“I’m not leaving him,” Reed said. “Not again.” 

“What, I don’t get anything to say about that?”

Ben was standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“Ben, I didn’t -- ” Reed started, but Ben cut him off with a hard look.

“For the record, I’m with the flame brain,” he said. He jerked his chin his way. “You think you’re bored here? Try being a Thing, lumbering around all this delicate equipment. Can’t even breathe without being afraid I’m about to ruin a billion dollar piece of junk. I don’t belong here, Reed. None of us do.” 

Reed, for once, didn’t seem to have an answer to that.

“Alright,” Ben sighed after a long minute spent just watching Reed. He thrust his hand out in front of him. “Come on, all of you. Put your hands in the circle.” 

“Are you serious?” Johnny said. Ben took a deep breath before he glared at him.

“Don’t make me step on you,” he said. “Hand in the circle. Now.” 

Johnny put his hand in the circle. After one moment of Ben’s long hard stare Sue followed suit. That just left Reed, standing a little ways away like he wasn’t sure he was invited. 

“Come on,” Ben said to him. “We don’t go without you.” 

Reed’s hand snaked out to rest, feather light, over the rest of theirs. 

“One for all and all that crap,” Ben said. “We go together.” 

Johnny grinned, throwing his hand up. Reed did the same, then Sue, looking a little embarrassed and a little happy at the same time. Ben huffed like he was sick of all of them before he wrapped his arm around Reed’s shoulders.

“Why you gotta be so stupid all the time?” he asked him. 

“It’s probably the company I keep,” Reed mumbled like it was an old joke, turning to press his forehead briefly against Ben’s rocky skin. “Okay. Okay. I’ll figure something out. We’ll go home.”

\--

They figured it out: Sue perfected their unstable molecules, and she and Reed went head-to-head with the people running Central City, saying that Central City needed them more than they needed it, and Ben acted like eight-foot-tall back-up, one rocky fist resting menacingly on one rocky palm. The four of them, Reed said, carefully avoiding the word ‘fantastic’, needed to branch out. This, he said, could benefit everyone. 

Johnny – Johnny daydreamed, about New York, about a new life outside Central City’s sterile white walls. It had been so long since he had been back in the real world. He and Sue flew first class back to New York and the whole time he could hardly believe it. He laughed out loud at the first sight of the city’s lights, crowding up against Sue to better see out the window.

“I _asked_ if you wanted the window seat,” she said, attempting to shove him back. She was staring, too, and Johnny ended up with his chin hooked over her shoulder, watching the familiar landmarks grow larger.

“Look,” he said. “There’s the Statue of Liberty.”

It dampened his mood a little, as the plane landed, thinking about Reed and Ben making the same flight in a military carrier. Ben couldn’t stroll through JFK the way he and Sue could. They couldn’t stay in a four star hotel the way he and Sue could, and when they met up to make arrangements about the Baxter Building, it felt like everyone’s eyes were on Ben.

Johnny didn’t know how he could stand it.

The Baxter Building had been evacuated the night of the accident. It had been abandoned ever since. 

“What do you mean, abandoned?” Johnny said. “It’s a huge ass building in the middle of New York City!” 

“It’s haunted,” the real estate agent they spoke to said, completely straight-faced. 

There was a long moment of silence before Reed said, “Haunted,” very slowly, like he was trying not to laugh. He glanced at Ben, then at Sue and Johnny. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem for us.”

Haunted or not -- “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Reed said decisively while Ben snorted and rolled his eyes --, the building was unsettling. Johnny had never seen it completely empty before, and the halls that had seemed too narrow were now cavernous. Their footsteps echoed with every step - Ben’s, admittedly, louder than the rest of theirs. 

It was like everyone had dropped everything the moment of the accident. Doors hung half-open, and someone’s bag lay open and abandoned on the floor, highlighters and pens spilling out. It needed a few flickering lights and some creaking floorboards, but Johnny could get why people thought the place was haunted. It was already a ghost town. 

Reed promptly went to explore, and Ben followed after him. Johnny didn’t particularly feel like revisiting the sight of the accident, so he kicked around in the old dorms for a while, feeling aimless, before he headed towards the elevator.

The door to their dad’s old office hung open. Through it Johnny could see Sue, sitting in their dad’s chair at their dad’s desk. There were papers scattered everywhere, and suddenly Johnny could see it -- the accident, the blackout. Dad would’ve dropped the papers in his rush back to the lab. He wouldn’t have been allowed back in to get them. He wouldn’t have tried - he’d have been too busy trying to find out what had happened to them. 

_”Promise me. Look after each other.”_

Sue was picking the papers up and putting them in neat little piles. There was a picture of the three them sitting on the desk, their father in the middle with his arms around them both. Johnny didn’t remember when it had been taken, but they were all smiling in it, so it must have been a while ago. The glass was cracked; Sue had clearly picked it up off the floor and set it back where their dad had put it.

“Hey,” Johnny said, knocking at the door frame. 

“Hey,” Sue said after a beat. She took a deep breath, reaching back to tie up her hair. 

“It’s weird, right?” Johnny said and Sue nodded jerkily. “We should do something.” 

“Like what?” Sue asked. Johnny didn’t know. He leaned against the doorway, arms folded, as Sue spun her chair in lazy circles, both of them staring out at the office that still felt so much like their dad Johnny half-expected a hand to come down on his shoulder, a voice to tell him to stop slouching. 

“Do you think Spider-Man still swings by here?” he asked after a minute. 

They took the elevator up to the 50th floor, where the windows were floor-to-ceiling. 

“He usually swung by at night,” Sue said, hunkering down on the floor with her knees pulled to her chest. “But I saw him a few times in the morning on weekends.” 

“Okay, you made a schedule, and I’m the obsessed one?” he said. Sue snorted, setting her chin on her knees, then fell quiet.

Johnny wondered when he’d stopped knowing how to talk to his sister. 

He stretched his long legs out in front of him and looked out over the Manhattan skyline, unchanged in the year they’d been away. The night sky beyond the compound had always been pitch black, just stars in the sky and the building’s own floodlights. 

New York City was beautiful at night. It made him want to flame on and soar in between all of the lights, just for the sake of burning that bright. All his life he felt like he’d been burning; it was just that now he could finally shed some light.

“Do you think it was a mistake, coming back?” Johnny asked. 

Sue just stared straight ahead. “Do you?” 

Johnny shrugged. It felt better than being bored down at the lab, but it was early days and the restlessness he felt had barely subsided. He wanted to flame on. He wanted to fly. He wondered if Spider-Man ever got like that, the itch underneath his skin. “I thought it would be different. Being here is weird.” 

Sue nodded, tucking her chin in behind her knees. “Everything’s weird now. I don’t think it makes a difference where we are.” 

A noise like a snap made Johnny look up, and his jaw dropped open.

When Sue had said Spider-Man swung by the building, she hadn’t been kidding. He was right on the other side of the glass, lithe and long-limbed. He flipped and spun and then he was gone. Johnny jumped to his feet, pressing his face up against the glass to try and get one last look. 

“You’re sparking,” Sue said, but when Johnny glanced over his shoulder at her she was smiling. He smiled back.

“Yeah, well,” he said. “You were right. He’s got a really cute butt.”

\--

The walls kept making noises. Johnny hadn’t slept soundly for months after the accident, and then again after his dad’s death, but this was a whole new level. He turned onto his side, breathing out, and told himself he was just imagining things. Big, empty building, with only four people in it - of course it felt weird.

The floor shook with a sound like a long, low keening wail and Johnny sat straight up. 

Sue was out in the hall in her pajamas and a hoodie. The tips of her fingers faded in and out of sight with every creak and groan of the building. 

“I’m not imagining that?” Johnny said, and she shook her head. “Can we get Reed?” 

Reed was up and out of bed, the blankets in a pile on the floor like he’d accidentally rolled over the edge. He was running too-long fingers along the wall and frowning.

“The building’s not haunted,” he said, before they could say anything. 

There was a thump from somewhere far, far below them. Johnny grabbed Sue’s shoulder to steady himself, and for absolutely no other reason. 

“Nobody’s suggesting that it is,” Sue said, elbowing Johnny in the ribs. “But the last time anyone was in this building, you ripped a hole through the fabric of space, and we ended up…” she hesitated, pressing her lips tight together. “We ended up the way we are.”

Reed took a long, shaky breath, and said, “Okay. We should wake up Ben - he sleeps like a log.” 

True to his word, it took him ten minutes before he returned with Ben. Ben’s presence complicated things a little – his rumbling footsteps were louder than the noises in the walls, drowning out the sound.

“Maybe we were just hearing Ben snore,” Johnny suggested, and got a loud grunt in reply along with a nasty look from his sister. 

Reed didn’t even look like he’d heard Johnny speak.

“It’s coming from beneath us,” Reed said. It took Johnny a second to notice that one of his ears had stretched down the hall, disappearing around a corner.

“ _Gross_ ,” Johnny said. An invisible force field shoved him slightly to the side. He rubbed at his shoulder, leaning in closer to Ben’s bulk as the noise started again. “At least now we know it isn’t your snoring.”

Ben snorted. One giant hand nudged Johnny forward.

“Light it up, sparkles,” he said.

“Hey,” Reed hissed at them. “Now is not the time.”

“Reed, you and Ben go that way,” Sue said, nodding down the hall. “Johnny and I’ll take the basement. It’s a maze down there if you don’t know where you’re going.”

Johnny had never liked Baxter’s basements. Sue had used to make him play hide and seek down there, when they were both young and their dad had meetings all day, before Sue had been fast-tracked and Johnny had been left behind. She’d always get distracted by something old and abandoned and forget to look for him, and he’d be stuck down there, waiting in the dark.

Without realizing it, he reached for her hand.

“Scared?” Sue asked, tangling her fingers with his.

“Shut up,” he said.

At first, the lowest level of Baxter’s massive basement complex looked unchanged. It was likely no one had been in it at the time of the accident, and so, unlike the chaos of the upper floors, everything was in order. Abandoned projects sat covered in cloths, and filing cabinets gathered dust in the corners. Pet projects and dreams, abandoned because it had been decided that funding was better spent elsewhere.

Sue held an ancient flashlight that, against all odds, still worked. Johnny held one hand in front of them, all lit up. That was more for Sue’s benefit than his own – Johnny, when he let his powers wander just a little out of his stranglehold, could feel heat.

He felt it now.

“I don’t think we’re alone,” he said.

“Dun, dun, dun,” Sue muttered, deadpan. “What are you so afraid of, Burning Man?”

 _Don’t be a baby,_ Sue had used to say, when they were just little kids. It wasn’t that Sue was fearless, but she was endlessly curious, and always had been. Their dad had always had to keep a close eye on her; if he looked away for a second, Sue would have slipped like a shadow into some lab, poking at something she wasn’t supposed to. Sue was always looking for a mystery, because if there was a mystery then there was something for her to solve.

Johnny wasn’t like that. He liked buildings things, and cars, and he liked speed; he didn’t like strange glowing green energy in other dimensions or things that went bump in dark, deserted basements.

“I can feel it,” Johnny said, finally. “It’s like -- body heat, I think. But it’s deeper than this. I think, whoever it is, they’re underground.”

Sue glanced up at him, sharp-eyed. “Does Reed know you can do that?”

Johnny shrugged. “Does he have to?”

“Johnny,” she admonished. “If we don’t understand our powers, it’s not safe for us to – whoa!”

She nearly tripped over her own feet as she backed up, one arm stuck out to stop Johnny in his tracks.

There was a pit in the ground, jagged at the edges, like something had torn straight through the floor. Johnny held out a flaming arm, but even with the light he couldn’t see how far down it went. It was pitch dark, a yawning chasm. 

Johnny felt the same apprehension he’d felt on Planet Zero, staring down those cliffs at the swirling neon green below. He hadn’t gone down that time, not that it had mattered at the end – but this time he didn’t think he was getting the choice.

“How far down do you think it goes?” he asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Sue said, taking one step out into the hole. Johnny lunged for her, but Sue wasn’t falling. She smirked at him.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he said, scowling.

“Invisible platform,” Sue said, still standing out there seemingly on thin air. “Scared, baby bro?”

“Shut up,” he said, lighting up.

They descended together, Sue matching her speed to his. The tunnel wasn’t a straight drop down, twisting and turning, leading them away from the building. Johnny’s flames lit the way.

“It looks like something burrowed down,” she commented as they flew. “Look at the walls.”

Johnny wasn’t going to look at the walls. He focused on the freedom of flying, even down here, deep underground where the air was stale and heavy. He landed first, down on one knee, snuffing his flames before Sue’s feet touched the ground.

There was a tunnel before them, and at the end of it there was a light.

“I can feel him,” Johnny said. The words left his lips before he even knew what he was saying.

Sue started walking. She was his big sister; he had to follow.

There was a small, hunched figure up ahead, lit dimly in the light of half a dozen buzzing consoles.

“This is the part of the horror movie where the coeds get murdered,” Johnny whispered to Sue.

“It’s funny that you’re the one who wanted to be a superhero,” she said, flat. She stepped forward, away from him. “Hello?”

“Hello, Susan,” a familiar voice said.

“Dr. Molekevic?” Sue said.

“The _Mole Man_?” Johnny said before he could stop himself. Sue shushed him.

“Oh, Jonathan as well,” Molekevic said in that reedy little voice that had always made Johnny want to squirm. He’d always hated Molekevic’s classes, and he’d never been able explain to his dad why, but he’d begged and he’d whined and finally he’d been allowed to leave Baxter and transfer to a public school out in Leonia, where their house was, instead.

It had been a relief when Molekevic had been fired – something about continuing condemned projects on the government’s dime. Johnny hadn’t really paid attention, just liked knowing that he was gone.

“Arthur, is that you?” Sue asked. “What are you doing down here?”

Dr. Molekevic was quiet for a long moment. “They took my work away. But I know this building like the back of my hand… I came back to retrieve it. Then there was the light!” His voice fell. “And then the darkness.”

“He must have been in the building during the accident,” Sue said. Johnny couldn’t tell whether she was speaking to him or to herself. She moved as if to step forward, and Johnny’s grip tightened on her hand. “Arthur, have you been down here all this time?”

“For a long, long time, yes. Step into the light, children,” Molekevic said. “Let me look at you.”

Johnny didn’t want to. He wanted to leave, just turn and run, back up to the surface. The darkness felt oppressive, the air thick and dank and rancid. Johnny felt like he was choking on it. 

“Sue,” he said, hanging onto her hand. “He’s nuts, okay? Leave him. Let’s just go.”

Sue didn’t listen. Her hand left his, and she stepped into the dim green low of Molekevic’s workstation.

Reluctantly, Johnny followed her. He stood very still while Molekevic circled them, leaning in close and almost sniffing. The underground hadn’t treated Molekevic well; he was more hunched over than ever before, and Johnny suspected he hadn’t seen a shower since he’d slunk under the city. His hair hung limply around his face in clumps of tangles and he had a pair of blocky dark glasses perched on his face, like the kind people wore during an eclipse. Molekevic rubbed his gnarled hands together as he rocked back on his heels, radiating glee.

“You’re both still so beautiful,” he said, sighing. Johnny shuddered.

“Dr. Molekevic,” Sue said, leaning around him. “What’s over there? I thought I saw something move…”

Dr. Molekevic clapped his hands together. The sound echoed in the dark lab. 

“Susan!” he said, bearing his teeth in a grin. “Always so observant! Come, come…” 

He beckoned them forward, into the dark. Johnny didn’t want to go, but Sue forged on, fearless in the face of some new discovery. He had to go after her. Someone had to watch her back. _Look after each other_ , his dad had said. 

There was a sort of pen set up in the corner of the lab, constructed from plywood and chicken wire, and inside there were things moving slowly, aimlessly milling around. Johnny couldn’t see them clearly in the gloom, but he could smell them. He cupped a hand over his mouth and nose.

“Here, Susan,” Dr. Molekevic said, extending a cordial hand. “Come meet my work.” 

“Sue,” Johnny said from behind his hand but, just like always where Baxter was concerned, it was like she couldn’t hear him. Like he didn’t exist. 

“What are they?” she asked, leaning forward eagerly.

Molekevic opened the pen and gestured inside, beckoning. 

“Come, my pets. Don’t be afraid. Into the light, now, it won’t hurt…” Molekevic cooed and then, from one second to the next, his voice dropped to a snarl, and his hand darted into the pen, dragging out a small, bedraggled creature by the back of its neck. “Get out here, you miserable worm!”

He dumped the thing in front of Sue, and it took Johnny a moment to make sense of it, gnarled and distorted as it was. It was small, about the size of a medium-sized dog, but it stood upright on two legs, and it was mottled green, and all of a sudden Johnny realized why it reminded him of something he’d find at back of the fridge.

Dr. Molekevic had used to work with mold.

“The energy from Planet Zero,” Sue said, getting down on one knee. The thing cringed back, away from her. “It must have affected your work somehow…”

She reached out with one hand, that single-minded curiosity on her face.

“Sue, don’t touch it!” Johnny hissed, grabbing her by the shoulder.

Molekevic bristled.

“Ohh, yes, Johnny Storm,” he said, suddenly right in Johnny’s face. Johnny stumbled back, tripping over himself and landing in a sprawl on the ground. Molekevic was on him in an instant, gripping Johnny’s chin with one grubby hand. The stench of him nearly made Johnny gag. “Always thought you were so above us, hmm? Not one of the _freaks_ in their lab coats. But I heard about what happened to you, boy, back when the men in suits were whispering up above – who is the freak now?”

Johnny shoved him off, scrambling back and lighting up on instinct. At the same time, an invisible force shoved Molekevic back, sending him stumbling back into his computers.

“Sue,” Johnny said, gasping for breath.

“Dr. Molekevic,” Sue said, one hand held up in front of her. “Don’t touch my brother again.”

“Susan,” Molekevic said, sounding shocked.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Sue countered. “I said, don’t touch him again. Are we clear?”

Molekevic didn’t answer. He didn’t have to; the creatures in the pen had gotten restless, and now they were all crawling out, into the open, towards Sue and Johnny.

“Arthur?” Susan said.

“You weren’t like the others,” Molekevic told her. “Always laughing, making jokes. Calling me the mole man. Simple little minds, lashing out at my brilliance. No, Susan, you – you recognized me for my mind. That’s why I’m offering you a choice. Stay down here with me, Susan. With someone who _understands_ you. We could rule the underworld together! You could be a queen.”

He made a move as if to touch her. Force field or no, Johnny yanked her back, away from him. Dr. Molekevic sneered.

“I’ll even let Jonathan live,” he said. “As a favor to you, my dear. I’m sure I could find _some_ use for him and his… fire.”

“Back off, creep!” Johnny shot back, letting a few sparks fly. Molekevic seemed to shrink from their glow, but the rustling of the creatures behind him grew more frenzied. There were dozens and dozens of them, advancing like a wave. Even Sue took a step back.

“Arthur,” she said, her voice calm and measured, but Johnny knew her too well. He could hear the note of fear in her voice. “Come with us. You’ve been down here too long. We can help you –”

There was a cracking, snapping sound, and a split-second later Johnny realized that the pen holding the mole creatures had broken.

“Don’t let them leave!” Molekevic commanded.

“Sue!” Johnny shouted, flaming off and reaching for her. She was quicker on her feet, though, and he felt the air shift as an invisible wall slammed into the oncoming horde. She caught his hand in hers. “The tunnel –”

“One step ahead of you,” she said, and together they ran for it. The ground rumbled under their feet. 

“You can run, my beauties!” Molekevic shouted after them. “But you can’t hide! My creatures and I aren’t alone down here!”

Johnny felt it coming, surging up from underneath, so massive he didn’t know how he could have missed it before. He let go of Sue’s hand as they reached the end of the tunnel, his flames springing to life.

“Sue!” he shouted, shooting straight up. “We have to go!”

The rumbling ground split; Sue, caught off guard, gasped as she threw up a force field bubble. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure she was following him, and had to bite back on a panicked yelp.

Sue was following him. The problem was what was following her.


	2. Chapter One

Spider-Man had only been back in action for a little over three months when the abandoned Baxter building sank ten floors down into the ground and took half of the surrounding block with it.

“Ugh,” Peter said, webbing his street clothes up on an out of the way fire escape. “New York, New York – it’s a hell of a town.”

Going to Baxter was a mistake. Going to Baxter made him think of one night just after the blackout, spent squashed up with Gwen in her twin bed. The lights hadn’t come back on yet, and everything smelled like vanilla candles. It had become his habit, during the blackout, to slip into her bed for a few hours after a long night of webbing up muggers and pulling looters away from broken windows. Late into the night she’d told him about how somebody from Baxter had approached her one time, except she’d already had her heart set on working with Dr. Connors.

“Besides,” she’d said, nose wrinkling the way that always made him want to kiss her, a fierce sudden ache he always indulged even when it left Captain Stacy's last request - _leave Gwen out of it_ \- ringing in his ears. “They freaked my dad out. Way too baby mad scientist.”

In the moment, he’d been envious - “Gwen, that’s like the nerd dream,” he’d whispered just to make her laugh, “who turns down Baxter?” - and relieved, too, because if she’d gone to Baxter then what were the odds they would’ve still ended up curled together in the same tiny bed, her lips pressed against his and his hand in her soft hair. In that moment he couldn't have imagined his life without her. There was no life without her.

So Baxter made him think of Gwen. That wasn’t new. Everything made him think of Gwen - there, her favorite ice cream place. There, someone’s blonde hair, their pink lipstick. There, Union Square, his heart in his throat every time, thinking, _I don’t meet up with her, she gets on the plane._

Always, always, in his head: _I don’t web her that message, she gets on the plane. I never have dinner with her family, she gets on the plane. She goes to Baxter. We never meet. She’s fine, she’s happy - she doesn’t even need to get on the plane._

But he did meet her in Union Square, and he did web _I LOVE YOU_ all over the bridge, and she didn’t go to Baxter, and she never got on that plane.

Peter swung himself up, up, over and then dove. Time to go to work.

“One side, one side,” he said to the pedestrians, most fleeing the scene, some -- oy -- running towards it. “C’mon, people, move it, let’s go - whoa-heyo, _that’s_ new.”

The ground looked like it was moving. Peter dropped his swing, fingertips catching at a smooth glass window. He let himself hang there, staring down at the ground, trying to work out what exactly he was seeing.

The ground was moving because it wasn't the ground. The street had split open, the asphalt like a giant fault line, and from it rose something huge. Peter blinked a couple of times, just to make sure he was seeing what he was thought he was seeing.

A huge head emerged, sporting milky-white eyes and a mouth full of jagged teeth.

"Yep," Peter said, tearing himself away from the wall. "Definitely not hallucinating. Guess that’s a silver lining."

He dove into the crowd, swinging a woman out of the monster’s path and clear across the street. She took off running as soon as their feet hit the ground, not so much as a thank you.

That was fine. It wasn’t like Peter didn’t have bigger problems.

There was something on fire, streaking through the sky.

"Today just gets better and better," Peter said, trying to do the math in his head, to figure out trajectory, what it would hit, the kind of damage something that size would do, if he could stop it - but as it got closer he realized it was human-shaped.

A man on fire, falling. Then Peter realized: not falling. Flying.

He was headed straight for the monster.

"Only in New York," he said to himself. "Thaaat can't be good."

If there was one thing Peter’s day didn’t need – well, it was probably the giant monster bursting up through the asphalt. But if there was a second thing, it was a man on fire.

“Well, Spider-Man,” he told himself, shifting his weight in preparation for a swing. “No rest for the wicked.”

Screw the man on fire; there were pedestrians on the street about to get trampled – either by the monster or by each other. Peter grabbed a screaming woman around the waist and swung her safely across the street.

“Friendly neighborhood taxi, at your service,” he said, safely depositing her on the nearest patch of unbroken sidewalk. “No need to tip, just pay it forward – whoa, there, that’s a big monster.”

The beast had fully emerged from the ground, tall and hulking – it swatted a hotdog cart over with ease. It was pale and gleamed in the sun, enough to make Peter glad he’d taken the original inspiration for his mask’s eyepieces from sunglasses. The monster’s eyes were milky white, its nostrils flaring as it threw its head back with a cry that sounded pained.

“The sunlight,” Peter said to himself, mouth working before his mind had even caught up to it. He glanced up, shielding his own eyes. “It’s blind.”

Blind, in pain, and rampaging through the city – just what Peter’s day needed.

“Do me a favor, lady?” he said to the woman still clinging to his arm. “Run already.”

He didn’t need to tell her twice. She turned and ran, even as Peter shifted to put himself between her and the monster. That familiar buzz in his head was back, telling him that however bad the situation looked, things were about to get worse.

Story of Peter’s life. It didn’t matter; he needed to figure out how to stop the thing before someone got seriously hurt. He fired a webline and launched himself back up into the air.

His first thought was to restrain it. Wrap it in enough webbing, secured between buildings, lampposts, whatever he could use, and keep the thing immobilized until someone could show up with a really big dogcatcher’s net, or whatever the protocol was when it came to invasions of the underground monster variety.

He dismissed the plan a second later. This wasn’t the Lizard in an abandoned school hallway, this was a busy Midtown street. There were people everywhere. Worse, he thought, there were tourists everywhere.

He had no idea how strong the monster was. There was very little doubt in his mind that his webbing would hold, but a signpost? The infrastructure of a nearby building? There were people in those buildings, as well as on the streets. Peter couldn’t risk it.

“Alright,” Peter said to himself, mentally recalculating as he landed on a nearby building’s window, sticking himself to it. He shielded his eyes, wondering if he was going about this from the wrong angle. There wasn’t just the monster to contend with. “Where’d the firebug go?”

Peter caught sight of him a moment later, burning bright against the horizon. He was executing a sharp turn, and Peter wondered for a split second whether he was with the monster or against it – he was hoping for against for his own sake – when the man on fire dove, straight for the monster.

Against it was. Peter whistled. A flaming man fighting a giant blind monster in the middle of Manhattan – and he had the best seat in the house. Speechless for once, Peter could only watch for a second, drinking in the sight. The man – whoever he was, and however he’d ended up on fire – was poetry in motion, a riot of dancing flames and through it Peter could make out a body.

His eyes and his mouth were alight, glowing from within. Peter couldn’t look away from him as he threw – actually threw – a ball of fire straight at the monster’s face, and not just because he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He was beautiful.

Then the monster reared up and, with one giant paw, swatted the burning man like he was nothing. He went flying, crashing through a nearby window, and Peter came back to his senses.

A ringside seat to the Weekly World News fight of the century -- that didn’t mean Spider-Man was going to let Burning Boy take things on alone. He shook himself out of it and launched himself off the building, back into the air.

That was when he spotted the second monster, moving down the street.

He was smaller than the first, but still gigantic – if Peter had been standing next to him, he would have towered far over him. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing, but then it clicked to him: it was a man, a huge man, made out of rock. Peter could hear the grind of him as he moved closer, stone against stone.

He reminded Peter of a story his mother had told him when he was a kid. He’d been very young, but the memory came back to him as clear as any movie: sitting together in his bed, the bedside table’s lamp a soft glow, him under the covers and her on top of them, sitting between him and the wall. She’d had the book in her hands, and he remembered the scent of her perfume, faded at that point after a long day but still sweet. His father had leaned against the doorway, watching them from behind his glasses, his arms folded over his chest, listening as his mother read to him about the Golem.

“Come on, Mar,” he’d said. “Don’t read him that. You’ll give him nightmares.”

Peter couldn’t remember if the stories had ever given him nightmares, but he knew he’d dreamed of that moment more than once. His mother had been the only religious one in the family. He remembered how his dad and Uncle Ben had used to tease her about it.

That was what the monster reminded him of: a golem, made out of earth. A walking mountain, and he was headed straight for the huge white beast.

When his fist made impact with the underground monster’s face, the whole street seemed to shake with it. Peter felt like he was witnessing one for the history books. He was strong, but this guy – this guy seemed like he could move mountains.

The monster reeled back and, to Peter’s alarm, he realized it was going to fall – straight into a building that hadn’t had enough time to evacuate. Peter could see faces in the windows, shocked and enraptured, and he knew with a terrifying coldness that he wasn’t going to be fast enough to save them.

The monster didn’t fall.

Peter couldn’t figure out what had happened at first. It seemed to hover there, caught off-balanced in midair. It shouldn’t have remained upright, not at that angle, but it did. Then Peter saw her; down on the ground, her hands held in front of her and an intense look of concentration on her face, was a small woman with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. Peter didn’t know how he knew she was the one responsible for halting the monster’s fall, but he knew it.

He also knew she couldn’t hold the beast forever. He could see the strain on her face and the way she bent backwards, like the weight of it was threatening to crush her.

Peter swung out before he even realized he’d moved at all. He made it a high arc, simultaneously shooting a web with his free hand, so the strand wrapped around the monster’s neck, pulling it away from the girl – and away from the building.

“Have no fear!” he shouted, even as his arm strained from the weight and the monster roared in distress. “The cavalry is here!”

The monster fell away. The girl gasped, collapsing forward, her hands braced on her thighs.

“Ben,” she said. Not _thanks, Spider-Man_ , not _nice save, hero_ \-- just _Ben_. Because that was a name Peter loved hearing in the middle of a fight.

“I got it,” the rock man said, pulling one huge fist back, and thankfully he wasn’t looking at Peter. Peter snapped off his webline as the rock man – Ben, Peter guessed, with the same bittersweet pang hearing that name always gave him – punched the monster, making it roar. “Where’s Reed?”

“He was supposed to be with you,” the girl said. “Where’s _Johnny_?”

* * *

“Oh, okay, that hurt,” Johnny mumbled, laying in the wreckage of one of the Baxter Building’s old offices. He sat up with a groan, rubbing at his head, and guessed he should have been glad there’d been a big heavy wooden desk to break his fall – not.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Johnny turned to see whose it was, and even after months spent in Reed’s company he still jumped when he saw that the arm snaked all the out of the room. Reed’s head, on his elongated neck, also appeared in the doorway.

“Johnny, are you okay?” he asked. “I saw you go flying.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, watching as Reed’s body rejoined the rest of him in the doorway. “Yeah – I don’t think anything’s broken.” He shrugged Reed’s hand off, preparing to flame back on. “We gotta get back out there. Sue’s alone with that thing!”

“Johnny, focus,” Reed said. “Ben’s with her – we decided to split up when we saw you go flying. Now I need you to talk to me.”

“It’s the Mole Man,” Johnny said. “He’s controlling that thing somehow, and he’s got an army of little monsters made out of mold –"

“The Mole Man?” Reed cut in, frowning.

“Right,” Johnny said, it dawning on him that Molekevic had been fired before Reed ever got to Baxter. Sometimes it seemed to him like Reed had been there forever. Like Johnny had known him forever. “Dr. Molekevic. He used to teach here, but he was fired – he was doing all these illegal experiments with like, mold and stuff. We all called him the Mole Man. I guess he must have never really left the building because Sue and I found him under it and he had all these monsters that look like they came from the back of Ben’s part of the fridge and –”

Reed stretched around him to peer out the window and did something with his eyes that made Johnny have to look away.

“You get back down there and help them,” Reed said, snaking back out the way he’d come. “I’m going to go talk to Molekevic.”

“Do you know where he is?” Johnny asked, starting after him, but Reed had already disappeared down the hall.

“It’s a big hole in the basement,” Reed’s voice shouted back. “How hard could it be to find?”

“Yeah, because you’re so smart,” Johnny mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes. He edged his way through the shattered glass back towards the broken window, staring out. Down on the ground Ben and joined Sue and together they were trying to push in on the monster, Sue with her forcefields and Ben with his fists.

Even from here, Johnny could see the strain in his sister’s posture, how hard she was fighting to keep the beast back.

“Flame on,” he said to himself, diving out the window. “Sue, Ben, I’m coming – hold on!”

Then Johnny realized Sue and Ben weren’t fighting the monster alone.

There he was, like the best dream Johnny had ever had: Spider-Man, standing tall on top of a beautiful black BMW, every line of him radiating the strength he held in those tight, coiled muscles.

God, Johnny wanted to kiss him so badly. He’d do it through the mask if he had to.

A enraged roar broke him out of his reverie. Oh, right, he thought distantly – there was a huge angry monster attacking New York City and Johnny was supposed to be helping his sister and Ben stop it.

That just seemed so much less important than it had twenty seconds ago.

“Johnny!” Sue shouted.

“Right!” Johnny said, his attention snapping towards her. “What can I do?”

“We know it doesn’t like your light,” Sue said. “We need to keep it away from civilians, and stop it from doing anymore damage until we figure out how to contain it. Where’s Reed?”

“He went to find the Mole Man,” Johnny said, circling the creature. It roared and reared back, away from his flames; herding it wasn’t going to be as easy as Johnny hoped it be. One giant paw came up again, but Johnny was ready for it this time. He swerved sharply at the same moment as a strand of webbing shot out, yanking the creature’s paw back down.

Spider-Man had just tried to save him. Johnny’s entire life was made.

“Alright,” Spider-Man said, “you three all seem to know what’s actually going on here, which is miles ahead of where I am, but I think we can all agree that what’s important is keeping Godzilla’s unholy love child here from wrecking Little Tokyo. So what’s the game plan?”

Spider-Man was asking them what the game plan was. He was going to get to _talk_ to Spider-Man.

Sue beat him to the punch, throwing up another force field when the monster tried to turn the other way.

“It’s disoriented and in pain,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. If we could get it back to the lab, maybe –”

“Sue,” Johnny cut in. “The labs are like, fifty feet underground right now.”

“It came from underground,” Ben said. “I say we try to make it go back down there.”

“Good idea,” Johnny said. “I already live with one ugly monster, I don’t think we have room for a second.”

Ben grunted. Sue’s expression tightened at the possible loss of what could be the next big discovery, but it didn’t look like she had any better ideas, and Johnny could see she was exhausted, her ponytail coming undone and her hair sweat-stuck to her cheeks.

It wasn’t exactly dignified work, trying to guide the monster back the way it came. Sue and Ben used a combination of forcefields and brunt force to shove it forward, while Johnny played sheepdog and Spider-Man kept its flailing limbs in check as best as he could.

It sounded like it was pain. Johnny hoped it would go back down easily; he didn’t want to listen to it scream anymore. But it wasn’t like they could just let it rampage through New York City. It wasn’t exactly how Johnny had always pictured his first meeting with Spider-Man going. He couldn’t even stare at him too much, watching the elegant way he moved and the speed and agility with which he spun his webs, not if he didn’t want to take another monster paw to the chest.

They’d shoved the monster halfway back down the avenue when Johnny spotted a hand emerging from the ground. No, not from the ground – from somewhere deep underneath it.

“Sue! Johnny! Ben!” Reed’s voice shouted, one elongated arm coming out of the pit and wrapping itself around a nearby lamppost. A second later the rest of Reed’s body snapped out of the hole like a rubber band.

“Reed!” Ben said, rushing towards him, only to skid to a stop.

In Reed’s other hand, he held a struggling Molekevic by the collar of his ratty lab coat. Molekevic was furiously shading his eyes, cringing away from the sunlight, and Johnny was surprised how small he seemed by daylight. How unfrightening.

“Gumby’s _real_?” Spider-Man said. Johnny couldn’t help but laugh, one flaming hand cupped over his mouth so hopefully Ben wouldn’t see. It was only half because of Spider-Man’s joke, anyway. The other half was that he couldn’t believe he was getting to hear his voice like this, up close and personal. It was a nice voice, even muffled through Spider-Man’s mask. Johnny liked it.

Reed shot Spider-Man a nasty look, then turned back to Sue.

“I know how he’s controlling it,” Reed said, dumping Molekevic onto the ground. He kept a firm hand on the back of Molekevic’s collar even as Sue came forward, her hands raised, ready to throw up a force field if he needed her to. “Or should I say, her. Dr. Molekevic, would you share with the class?”

“Let go of me, you wretched children!” Molekevic demanded. “You know _nothing_!”

“Think you might want to be a little nicer,” Ben said, bending down to look Molekevic in the eye – or at close as Ben could get at his height, anyway. “What’d the little guy do, Reed?”

“That monster, she’s not wrecking things for no reason,” Reed said. “She’s searching for her child. Which Dr. Molekevic here stole.”

“He stole its _kid_?” Ben said.

“He needed something to lure her up to the surface,” Reed said.

That Molekevic had stolen the monster’s child – Johnny knew he was slimy, but he’d never imagined him doing something like that. He’d never thought he could feel sympathy for a thirty-foot-tall naked mole rat, but here he was, wishing he could reach out and comfort it without getting stomped on.

“You don’t understand,” Molekevic hissed, squirming furiously in Reed’s grip. “You’re just like the rest of them up here. Small-minded, petty people! They made me do this!”

“If I had a quarter for every time I heard that one,” Spider-Man said, crossing his arms over his chest. Reed glanced at him, as if he was only now fully realizing who was standing there with them. Then, like that wasn’t spectacular at all, he redirected his attention back to Molekevic.

Nobody in their right mind would ever want to look at Molekevic instead of Spider-Man. Johnny would never really understand Reed.

“Where did you put the child, Arthur?” Sue asked. “It can’t be very far.”

It was like the Mole Man didn’t even hear her. Instead, his eyes were fixed on Ben, and something rapturous had come over his face. It was the kind of look that made Johnny’s skin crawl, and he jumped back when the Mole Man lunged. It must have surprised Reed, too, because his unnaturally long grip fumbled as the Mole Man latched onto Ben with grubby fingers.

“You’re not like the others. You’re like me,” the Mole Man said, pawing at Ben’s rocky hide. “You could come with me, monster. Underground, where it’s safe. They can’t look at you in the dark.”

Ben’s eyes had gone hard on the word ‘monster.’ For a second Johnny wondered if one of those big rocky fists would come down and – splat – no more Mole Man.

But Ben only threw the Mole Man to the ground like he was nothing.

“Make him talk, Reed,” Ben said, turning away. “I’m getting pretty sick of this.”

His arm was stiff as stone when Johnny reached out to touch him, but then that wasn’t anything new.

Molekevic – maybe stunned by Ben’s rejection, maybe finally cowed by the fact that there were five superpowered people and an angry monster mad at him – started to talk. It was an explanation punctuated by curses and sniveling, and one memorable moment where Molekevic tried to spit in Reed’s face, a fate narrowly averted by a force field, but it was an explanation all the same.

There was a building across the street that was under construction. The top few floors were vacant. The monster could’ve torn through the city and still never found its child.

Spider-Man took off towards it as soon as the Mole Man pointed it out and, ignoring his sister’s cry of “Johnny!”, Johnny shot off after him. Spider-Man glanced over his shoulder at him as Johnny came up behind him, probably alerted by the sudden rush of heat, but he didn’t say anything. Johnny thought he looked curious, though. There was something in the way he tilted his head, and that was a whole different kind of heat, the idea of him making Spider-Man of all people take another look.

The abandoned office floor was creepy in a different way than Baxter’s basement had been. Ever since Victor had attacked the military compound, Johnny hadn’t been fond of dark, orderly spaces with no one in them.

He shivered, then closed his eyes. He wasn’t going to let Spider-Man see him like that.

“This is going to take forever,” he heard Spider-Man say, just slightly under his breath.

Something sparked on the edges of Johnny’s perception. Something warm. Something moving.

“Over there,” he said, pointing across the office.

Spider-Man turned to him again with that curious little head tilt, but now that Johnny had felt that spark – anxious and fearful, but vital and alive – he took off towards it. He trusted Spider-Man to follow.

“It’s locked,” Johnny said, trying the door. “I can melt it –”

“Move,” Spider-Man said.

Johnny opened his mouth to argue, before he remembered that it was _Spider-Man_. He moved. Spider-Man shook out his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, then reached out and tore the door off the hinges like it was made out of wet paper.

Part of Johnny realized that he should not have found that move so hot, but the rest of him didn’t care.

Something moved in the dark, scuttling under an abandoned desk. Spider-Man flung out an arm, barring Johnny from the door.

“Stay there,” he said.

 _I’m a superhero now, too,_ Johnny wanted to say, at war with the part of him that wanted to know if Spider-Man ever used that voice in other contexts. Like, for instance, in the bedroom.

A scuffling sound made him let go of that thought. There was a shape huddled in the corner, and whatever Johnny had been expecting, it wasn’t this. It looked like the other monster – pale, with small, milky eyes – but when Johnny had pictured a baby, even a baby monster, he’d pictured something small. The creature in the corner was at least the size of a small cow, though at the moment it was trying to make itself look much smaller.

“That’s the baby?” Johnny said. “It’s huge!”

“Look at the adult version,” Spider-Man said. “By comparison, this one’s downright tiny. Hey, kiddo.”

The last part he said to the whimpering baby monster, crouching down on his heels in front of it. He extended a hand like one might do to a skittish dog. Cautiously, the creature poked its nose out.

“There you go,” Spider-Man said. “I figure, bad eyesight, the sense of smell’s gotta be pretty good. Hey, s’okay, little guy. I gotcha.”

“How are we going to get it out of here?” Johnny asked, looking at the size of it as it nuzzled Spider-Man’s extended palm.

Spider-Man snorted.

“That’s not going to be a problem,” he said.

* * *

Johnny would have liked to have said it wasn’t hot watching Spider-Man shoulder and swing with what had to be a couple hundred pounds of baby monster, but he would have been lying. There was something mesmerizing about the sheer strength of him, hidden in those long limbs. Johnny could’ve watched him all day.

The baby monster, not so much, admittedly. It cried out as Spider-Man set it down carefully on the ground, the mother monster already lumbering toward it.

Johnny watched as the monster put its head down against its child’s, the ache that had become familiar over the past few months back in his chest. It was weird, the things that made him remember that his dad was gone. Waking up at four in the morning and lying there in the dark, wondering if he could sneak past his dad’s bedroom and get some work done on the Toyota, before he remembered where he was. Hearing one of his dad’s favorite Motown songs. Watching a thirty foot tall mole rat coo at its child.

The baby monster chirped and Johnny glanced away, his throat tight.

Just like that, it was over. The monster and her child slunk underground, back where they’d come from, leaving nothing but the destruction.

The destruction, and the Mole Man. Johnny was pretty sure Dr. Molekevic was crying.

“You alright there, Mole-y?” Ben grumbled. He seemed to have taken to the old Baxter nickname.

“Nobody understands,” the Mole Man said miserably. “The pretty people deserved it.”

“Okay, I’m sick of this guy,” Spider-Man said. He flicked his wrist and a web shot out, covering Molekevic’s mouth. Another web knocked his wrists back when he raised his hands to claw at it. “Think about that next time you kidnap some underground monster’s kid.”

He looked around – or Johnny thought he did, at least, but it was hard to tell with the big white mask lenses. Up close he was so limber, his movements so fluid, but Johnny could tell it was just an act, something to distract from how much power there was in those long limbs.

“Alright, well, you four seem like you have this covered, so,” he said, faux casual, extending an arm.

“Wait,” Johnny said. “Spider-Man --!”

But it was too late. He was already gone, swinging away, leaving Johnny standing on the ground.

* * *

There was an almost ringing silence after the monster and her child disappeared back underground, like everyone was waiting for something else to happen. It was when the big rocky guy let out a rumbling breath that Peter realized it was really over, and he found he didn’t know how to feel.

Peter had fought brilliant men who had poisoned themselves with science and regular men in giant weaponized rhinoceros suits and just about every idiot with a gun and a bad idea in the city before, but this – never before had he helped chase a giant monster back underground.

He felt like maybe he should feel different. Good, even. But he hadn’t felt anything since Gwen, so it didn’t really surprise him when the world stayed the same, muted and grey, but a little safer. That had to be what counted.

He could hear sirens in the background, coming ever closer. A new, fresh wave of cops, and with them there would be reporters. It was time for Spider-Man to make his excuses and vamoose.

The man on fire wasn’t on fire any longer. Peter only got another quick glimpse of him as he propelled himself upwards, but he noted the tight black suit, the dark skin, the face that made him take a second look. It was a split-second double take that nearly made him swing into a wall.

He was beautiful when he wasn’t on fire, too.

Peter heard him say his name as he swung away: _Spider-Man_. But people pointed up at him and said his name every day; there was no reason for Peter to consider this time anything special. Except, of course, that the man who said it had been on fire moments before.

“New York, New York,” he murmured to himself. “You’re a hell of a town.”

Peter snagged the backpack holding his clothes and his books, but he didn’t leave. Part of him wanted to; the day was saved, and there was no more need for Spider-Man to be on the scene. But it hadn’t been a solo victory, and that itched at him, made him hesitate.

More than that, he wanted to know more about the four strange newcomers.

Peter perched on a nearby window ledge, just watching. Down on the ground the four had regrouped – Force Field Girl was hovering at Flame Boy’s side and he was trying to wave her off, shaking his head. She didn’t listen, taking his elbow, trying to get a good look at his face. He was too busy looking around. Probably, Peter realized, for him. Peter shrank a little further back into the shadows – watching, but not letting himself be seen. He wanted to see this play out.

At first, the news teams and even the police seemed a little hesitant to get close. Peter couldn’t say he blamed them.

“It’s okay,” the stretchy guy said, one hand extended unnaturally far in supplication, his fingers splayed like a starfish. “We’re the good guys. We’re here to help.”

“But who _are_ you?” one reporter asked, extending her microphone towards the strange group. Peter was wondering the exact same thing.

“Lady,” the big rocky guy said. His voice rumbled like a landslide. “Don’t you know? We’re the ever-lovin’ Fantastic Four.”

Peter made an executive decision and pulled out his camera.

* * *

The Fantastic Four were everywhere over night. One giant monster defeated and the city was in love. Peter snorted into his cereal.

Burning Man incarnate - Johnny Storm, the TV told him helpfully over breakfast - in particular stared out at him from screens and the front page of the morning’s paper.

(May subscribed to the Bugle -- to support him, she said.

“I’m begging you here,” he always responded, “get the Globe.”)

Johnny had a face made for cameras, Peter had to give him that much.

The others were getting their own fair share of page time. Peter’s photo made the Bugle’s cover, the big guy front and center, Johnny Storm hovering beyond his shoulder, Reed Richards off to the side with, a little disturbingly, only half of Susan Storm.

"Are you and the Invisible Woman married?" someone asked on TV, sticking a microphone in Johnny Storm's face. He and Susan turned to each other with identical looks of horror.

"Dude," Johnny said. "Do some research. She's my _sister_."

Peter snickered at his appalled voice, ducking his head over his cereal bowl.

"That's good," Aunt May said from behind him, bustling through the kitchen. "Too young to be married. Worried too much about that when you..."

Were with Gwen, she didn't finish. He didn't have to look up to know that she'd stopped in her tracks and bitten her tongue. She forgot, too, like he did every hazy few minutes in the early morning, before it all came crashing back down.

He couldn't stand to see the look on May’s face, though, the one she'd worn the whole year he'd skulked around from school to home and back again, wearing his grief instead of his costume, when he'd looked up and saw the new streak of grey in her hair, the lines on her forehead, and realized he'd put those there.

If nothing else, Peter couldn't do that to her anymore.

"Weren't you my age when you and Uncle Ben got married?" he said, shooting her a crooked grin over his shoulder. He did his best to sell it. Even if he fell a little short, he knew it would make her feel better. Some days that was all he had.

"That was different," Aunt May said, snapping back to herself. She squared her shoulders as she wiped down a counter. "We knew what we were doing."

"Uh-huh." She swatted at his shoulder with a dish towel and he laughed. "I can do that, y'know, if you wanna sit down, watch the rest of this."

"You eat your breakfast," she said. "The news will still be there afterwards."

“This building is where the accident that gave us our powers took place,” Reed Richards said. In person he looked painfully young, too young for the grey creeping up his temples. Barely older than Peter, but then Peter felt so much older than he looked. “It’s only right that we come back to it.”

“More importantly, New York City is our home,” Sue Storm said. Peter was pretty sure they’d written this all down beforehand, mostly based on the way she, Reed Richards, and Ben Grimm all kept glancing at Ben’s giant palm. Johnny Storm stared straight out at the camera, something defiant in his gaze.

Peter looked away.

“This is where we need to be,” Ben Grimm’s voice came, gruff.

“We were given these powers for a reason,” Johnny Storm told the NY1 reporter, too earnest to be real. Without really meaning to, Peter looked back over at the television. Johnny stared out at the screen, almost like he was looking straight at Peter specifically. “We should use them to help people.”

Peter flicked the TV off.

* * *

“I think the Bugle hates us,” Sue said, frowning down at her tablet.

“At least we’re in good company,” Johnny said, turning the front camera on his phone on and trying to angle himself for optimal Morning After Saving the City selfies. “They hate -”

“Spider-Man, we get it,” Ben grumbled, twisting the lid off the 7/11 Big Gulp Johnny had charmed a barista into filling. His number was scrawled on a coffee napkin tucked into Johnny's pocket, but Johnny didn't think he was going to call.

They were going to be stars, the new face of people with abilities. That was the deal Reed had ultimately struck to get them out of Central City. A group of superpowered people who had a relationship with the government. They would be accountable, they wouldn’t be faceless vigilantes or wear masks, not like Spider-Man – not that Johnny thought there was anything wrong with Spider-Man’s face, probably. There definitely wasn’t anything wrong with his mask. It didn’t matter; what did matter was the public loved them already, and that celebrities could do better than fumbling by the dumpsters behind the Starbucks.

"I'm gonna ignore that tone for your sake," Johnny said, flicking a single spark in Ben's direction. He snapped a photo, then bent forward to play around with filters. Brand new start, brand new Instagram account. Johnny was in a different sphere of social media influence now, and he was loving it. Carefully, he typed out ‘#flameon.’ “Where do you think he went, after the fight?”

“Back to his web,” Ben said, droll.

“Hilarious,” Johnny said. “I’m serious! Why didn’t he stick around, get a chance to share in the victory glow?”

“Who cares?” Ben grunted. Johnny shot a spray of sparks at him, harmless but showy. Ben swatted them away like fireflies. “Just because you’re carrying a torch for the guy doesn’t mean the rest of New York has to like him.”

“Spider-Man’s a hero,” Johnny repeated sharply. “He doesn’t need any recognition for what he does.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ben. His gravel deep voice was steeped with judgment. “Unlike you.”

“Hey,” Sue said, hand to his chest as Johnny started forward. The threat of a force field glimmered behind her eyes. “Hey, let’s just take a walk, okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Johnny said, glaring at Ben. “Whatever.”

It was strange, being back at Baxter. The building had always been so busy, filled to the brim with nerds, students and teachers and men in sleek business suits. Now Johnny’s footsteps echoed in the empty halls.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked Sue. Ben’s comment still stung; Johnny didn’t _need_ recognition. But what was so bad about getting it for a good deed done? They’d saved people.

Just because a guy like Spider-Man wore a mask, that didn’t mean he didn’t get recognition in his own way, and it didn’t mean he didn’t want it either. He wouldn’t have blamed Spidey if he did. After everything he’d done for the city, he deserved some recognition. Even if it was just from Johnny.

“You,” Sue said. She was staring straight ahead. “We haven’t had a lot of time to talk. I saw you reactivated all your old social media accounts.”

The military had wiped all trace of the four of them off the face of the internet. It was frustrating, starting new accounts, attempting to dig up old photos of himself, of Sue, of them standing together with their father at a big Baxter event, Sue looking somewhere off camera and Johnny flat out sullen. The pictures of him with his cars, him with old boyfriends – all gone.

How many times had Johnny wished for a do-over, an opportunity to reinvent himself? Now he just wanted proof of his old life back. Some proof of a life at all.

He hadn’t told Sue, but he’d gone back to the house in Jersey, a few days after they’d gotten back. It lay abandoned, the lawn overgrown. Inside there was nothing, and Johnny had stood in the hall and imagined the team of agents coming through and wiping away every trace of them – of him, of Sue, of their dad, even of their housekeeper. She’d always been nice to him, staying late to make sure he ate dinner on nights his dad hadn’t come home. He wondered what had happened to her.

The car he’d worked so hard on was gone from the garage, without even an oil stain on the ground to mark where it had been.

Standing there, Johnny had felt like he’d never existed at all. Now he couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing his face. The Fantastic Four hadn’t stopped trending on Twitter. Every major New York publication wanted an exclusive, and Rolling Stone wanted to make him and Sue their cover story. Johnny had never felt more alive.

And they’d helped people. They’d saved the city.

Well, they’d saved part of the city, anyway. That had to count for something.

“I know when we agreed to do this, we agreed to go public. That we’d operate out in the open,” Sue continued. She didn’t look happy about it. Johnny bit down on the inside of his cheek. “I know we all said that was the best way. I just don’t know how smart it is to put so much of yourself out there. Not so early.”

“You sound like Dad,” Johnny said before he could stop himself. _Slow down, Johnny. Take a moment to think, son. I know you’re smart enough to make the right decision._ Their dad had always wanted him to consider the consequences, and Johnny had only ever wanted to jump right into the action.

“Well, Dad always had some good points,” Sue said.

“Maybe for you,” Johnny said. He regretted it as soon the words left his lips, but he couldn’t help it. Still, he scrambled to take it back as the serious line of her mouth tightened, bloodless, like she was swallowing down whatever she wanted to bite back at him. “Sue, I didn’t mean it like that.”

They were family. They had to take care of each other. That was what their dad had wanted. All four of them were family now. They all only had each other. Or at least, that was how Reed and Ben acted, and Johnny didn’t want to ask them otherwise, in case they changed their minds and left him and Sue on their own.

Sue turned into one of the old conference rooms, the ones they’d used to sneak into when they’d been much younger. Johnny remembered hiding under the table with her and listening to her talk about the projects she was working on, his big sister’s very own version of fairytales. He’d used to love it, but then he’d been just a kid.

For a second he thought she was angry at him for the line about their dad, that she didn’t want him to follow. Then she glanced at him over her shoulder, one eyebrow barely lifted, and he exhaled.

He didn’t want to be angry at Sue anymore. He didn’t want her to be angry with him either. She’d been his best friend, once upon a time. Now Johnny didn’t have any friends. Just Sue and Reed and Ben.

The windows in the conference room were floor to ceiling, and they were dirty. Nobody had cleaned them in a while. Johnny guessed it hadn’t been a priority, just like the one sad, dead plant sitting in the corner. Johnny knew he’d been in this room before, but he didn’t recognize it anymore.

Sue went to stand by the windows, staring down at the streets below them. Johnny moved to stand next to her, so close their arms almost brushed. Down below he could still see the hole in the street where Dr. Molekevic’s monster had burst through the pavement, and he could watch the construction crews working to get everything back to normal. His throat felt tight. They had been down there. They had fought that fight. Maybe if he repeated it to himself enough, it would feel real.

“That was good, right?” he said to Sue. “It – it felt good.”

Sue didn’t look at him; she just kept staring out the window.

“I think,” she said, after a long moment, “this is what Dad would have wanted us to do.”

* * *

Johnny looked for Spider-Man everywhere. Every glance of red or blue made him turn his head, eyes searching, hope burning bright in his chest. But unfailingly, it was someone’s red scarf, a bicyclist’s blue windbreaker. Not Spider-Man.

Johnny just wanted to talk to him, that was all. Tell the guy what he meant to him. How he’d inspired him.

A chance to meet Spider-Man again in the flesh. A chance to talk, with no monsters or bad guys around. Johnny let himself imagine, for one giddy second, Spider-Man being excited to see him again, too. One hero being able to hang with another – why wouldn’t Spider-Man be thrilled? The guy had been doing this all alone. Now he didn’t have to anymore.

Hell, he hadn’t brought it up with Reed and Sue yet, thinking he should at least talk to Spider-Man first, but there was no reason they couldn’t be the Fantastic Five. That sounded pretty spectacular as far as Johnny was concerned.

The problem was he had to find Spider-Man before he could ask him about it. Johnny kept an ear out, but every time there was a sighting of Spider-Man he was gone again long before Johnny hit the scene.

It was unfair. Johnny just wanted to talk to the guy. He’d seemed so impossibly out of reach before Johnny had gotten his powers, but now he could fly. Didn’t Spider-Man get that?

No, of course he didn’t. Johnny couldn’t make him see, because he had no idea where to find him. It sparked in his chest, wrong, an inferno – what was wrong with him, that Spider-Man wasn’t even interested? Johnny’s face was everywhere. The Fantastic Four were everywhere. If Spider-Man wanted to find him, he had to know where he could.

So Spider-Man didn’t want to see him. It wasn’t fair. Spider-Man didn’t even know him. Johnny was more now than he’d ever been before, and still he wasn’t good enough.

He thought it was a trick of the light for a split second when he saw the figure swing by. They were in the middle of a meeting about merchandising – something. Johnny had checked out when the old guy with the briefcase and all the papers had started talking numbers and Sue had sat up like the cutest guy in class had asked her out. So he couldn’t be blamed for thinking he’d imagined Spider-Man, at first, swinging by in that red and blue costume, almost too fast for the eye to follow.

Then Johnny realized he was real.

Reed yelped as Johnny almost knocked him over trying to get to the window. He barely had time to register Sue calling his name before he forced the window open, lighting up as he dove through it.

Spider-Man had already swung around the building, but as fast as he was, Johnny was faster. He caught up with him easily, slowing his flight to match Spider-Man’s swinging speed. Up close and with no monster to distract from the finer things, Spider-Man was even more incredible. The sleek red and dark blue suit highlighting his body, powerful in the air. Johnny wanted to lick him almost as much as he wanted to be him.

“Hey, Spider-Man!” he called out, even though Spider-Man had to have seen him. Johnny was only a flying man on fire, after all. “Remember me?”

Spider-Man glanced his way, a split-second twist of his head, and then he broke his swing and dove. Yelping at the speed of the move, Johnny followed hot on his heels, only to nearly fall straight into a hot dog cart when Spider-Man pulled up at the last second, whipping himself back into the air.

He was more agile than Johnny had given him credit for.

“Wait up!” he said, flipping himself over in the air. The hot dog vendor shouted curses at Johnny’s back as he flew after Spider-Man.

Spider-Man didn’t wait. He led the chase for another five minutes. Johnny had the speed advantage, but Spider-Man clearly knew his way around the rooftops far better, and he was good at doing the unexpected, feinting right before swinging left. It was only Johnny’s speed that kept him from making like an oversized flaming pigeon and smacking into an office building window or three.

The last time, he came close enough to meet the eyes of a startled courier through the clear glass, and winced when the guy dropped his packages in shock. He didn’t know what Spider-Man was doing, but it wasn’t funny, and if he kept it up, someone was going to get hurt. Johnny grit his teeth, mad now, and put on an extra burst of speed as he turned around and took back off after Spider-man.

He caught up with him three blocks away.

“Hey!” Johnny said, cutting in front of him so sharply it forced Spider-Man to drop his swing, landing on a rooftop down below. “Come on, man! What do you think you’re doing?”

Spider-Man hadn’t left the rooftop. Instead, his hands were fixed on his hips like he was someone’s annoyed aunt. Johnny didn’t know what he had to be angry about; he was the one who’d nearly made Johnny burn down a hot dog cart. Still, it was better than him going skittering off. Johnny swooped down to meet him. He flamed off as his feet hit the ground, hoping it would put Spider-Man in a friendlier sort of mood – maybe the guy had a thing about fire.

“I just want to talk, okay?” Johnny said, taking a step forward. “You know – hero to hero.”

“Alright, Sparky, alright,” Spider-Man said, hands held out in front of him, open and placating. “Whoa, whoa, hey. Okay. You wanna talk? Let’s talk.”

Johnny let out a breath and opened his mouth - and that was when the webbing hit him square in the chest, knocking him back and breathless and leaving him pinned to a wall.

“Sorry!” Spider-Man called out, not sounding sorry at all. He gave Johnny a wave and then leaped from the building. “I gotta go, I’m late, I’m late for a very important date!”

Johnny burned away with the webbing with extreme prejudice, but Spider-Man had already disappeared somewhere down below.

"Johnny!" Sue said, fading into sight at his elbow. It figured that she would’ve taken after him. "Are you okay?"

"No," he ground out, flames leaping higher. "Spider-Man's a _jerk._ "


	3. Chapter Two

Anna Watson's niece Mary Jane was hanging halfway off her aunt's porch swing, huge sunglasses on even though she was in the shade. For one moment Peter contemplated going back the way he came and taking some unorthodox shortcuts to reach his bedroom window, avoiding Mary Jane altogether.

She was quicker than him.

"Hey, Parker," she called out when she caught sight of him, giving him an upside down wave. Mary Jane blew in and out of the neighborhood seemingly at random, staying at her aunt's place for a few days before heading - wherever she went. Home, Peter guessed. Wherever that was for her.

He gave her a wave he hoped didn't look as sad and tired as he felt. "Hey, MJ."

Mary Jane whistled low.

"Wow, Tiger," she said. She kicked her feet, leopard print boots and all, up in the air. "Who rained on your parade?"

"Long day," he said with a wry little half-smile, the best he could fake. "You know how it goes."

"You look like you could use a friend," Mary Jane said, twisting herself up into a sitting position. "There's this place I just found that does _amazing_ falafel - and they have free wifi! Come on, what do you say?"

She smiled at him, looking pretty in her oversized scarf and red leather jacket.

"I say I have homework," Peter said, shaking his head. Mary Jane booed him. "Thanks, just - not today."

She slumped back down on her aunt's porch swing, sighing dramatically as she pulled out her phone. "Fine, be that way! I'll just waste away here all on my lonesome.”

Peter laughed in spite of himself. "Good talk, MJ."

"Leave me," she said loftily, waving a dismissive hand.

“As Her Majesty commands,” he said as he unlocked the front door and slipped inside. Once the door was closed it was like his strings had been cut – he fell back against the door, sighing.

First the Human Torch, now Mary Jane. What Peter wouldn’t have given for a nice, friendly neighborhood chat with an armed gunman or twelve.

What did the Human Torch want with him, anyway? Peter felt the briefest guilty twinge over having webbed him, but the guy had come at him out of nowhere. He’d just wanted to talk, he’d said, but about what? He had his teammates. He had all of New York fawning over him, practically. What did he need with Peter too?

Why couldn’t everyone just leave him alone?

He shook his head, as if the action alone could clear all the thoughts from it. It didn’t work, but then it never did. Instead he put himself through the steps: check the answering machine, shuck his hoodie, grab a snack. Go upstairs. Do the reading for his classes. Work on his paper. Wait until it got dark and go out all over again. Hit someone that deserved it until the chasm in his chest felt a little more bearable.

Fall into bed. Get up, go to class. Lather, rinse, repeat.

There was one message from Aunt May, telling him she’d be late and not to wait up for her for dinner. He rifled through the fridge until he found the leftovers from the night before and trudged up the stairs, his head hung low.

He’d hoped a little webbing to the face would be enough to teach the Human Torch a lesson: stay away from the Spider-Man. It wasn’t. If anything, Johnny seemed even more determined to get him face-to-face – or rather, get in Peter’s face. He didn’t know what the Torch wanted, but Peter knew he didn’t want any part of it. He didn’t want to know him. He didn’t want to be superhero buddies or whatever it was Johnny Storm was imagining.

He was making a valiant effort. Peter had to give him that. But it wasn’t going to get the Torch what he wanted. Peter had crawled, swung, and explored all over New York. Even before he’d had his powers, he’d had his board. Nobody knew the city like Peter, not even a guy who could fly. Avoiding Johnny Storm was a second nature. Peter barely paid it any thought. Johnny was just one more chaotic, noisy aspect of New York for him to filter out.

Peter just wished he could do it as successfully out of costume.

Everywhere he turned, the Fantastic Four seemed to be there. When May turned on the television, the news was covering their latest exploits. Or, if he got home early from swinging, he’d find her sitting on the couch, watching late night television the way she and Ben had always liked to, a cup of tea in her hands and the Human Torch and the Thing being interviewed by a late night talk show host. Inevitably, the Human Torch would be laughing or making some stupid joke.

It was Johnny Storm’s smile, Peter decided. That was what he hated the most. Like this was easy. Like he was having fun.

He remembered Gwen smiling like that, like she was so happy she couldn’t contain it. Like sunlight.

When he got the mail and Johnny Storm was staring up at him from May’s issue of People, his eyes guileless and his smile looking like around a million and a half bucks, it was the last straw.

The magazine went flying somewhere in the direction of Anna Watson’s roof. Peter was too busy slamming the door to see if it landed.

The noise brought May in from the kitchen, her eyebrows furrowed.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, handing her the rest of the mail. He bent to kiss her cheek, not that it softened her frown in the slightest. “The new mailman’s violent.”

“We have a new mailman?” she asked as he brushed past her. “Peter, where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” he said, itching just under his skin. His backpack was in the kitchen, where he’d dumped it when he’d gotten back from ESU. He snagged it with one hand, grabbed an apple with the other. Mouth on autopilot, he came up with a slightly more plausible explanation, “The library. Studying. Got a paper.”

He needed to be in the air already. Nothing made him feel more settled in his own skin than when he was hurtling down the end of an avenue on a webline.

The door slammed shut behind him and he was gone. One quick change later and he was flying, soaring through the sky, pushing his swings as hard and fast as they would go, stopping occasionally to skitter across a building. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Queens gave way to Manhattan. He’d meant to head downtown, maybe hit Union Square or just a little further down, like St. Mark’s, somewhere where the buildings were a little less uniform and the energy a little buzzed, somewhere where he could get a little punch drunk on the atmosphere before he started the actual punching. Instead he found himself drawn to Midtown, and before he knew it he was swinging by a building on the corner of 42nd and Madison.

The Baxter Building.

He touched down on the next building over, just looking at it. Wondering what had brought him here.

It had probably been muscle memory. He hadn’t exactly been thinking while he swung, leaving all that behind in search of the thrill, and this had used to be a frequent flyby spot on his weekday patrols. He always liked to glance in and get a glimpse of all the lab coats scurrying around. Later, it had been his favorite spot to grab an early dinner. The Baxter Building overlooked a little cafe Gwen and one of her classmates had liked, and they’d used to sit outside and work on their papers.

He’d used to get a burger from a place a couple of streets down, then swing over and watch her. He liked the intent way she bent over her slim laptop, the way she brushed her hair behind her ear.

 _”Have you been following me?”_ she’d asked that night, when she’d wanted him to meet her in Union Square. He could close his eyes and still see the holiday market’s lights dancing off her hair.

 _”Just once a day, sometimes,_ ” he’d said. _”Sometimes more.”_

He’d always loved the way she wrinkled her nose when she was really concentrating, the look in her eyes when she was hard at work like the rest of the world had faded away and there was just Gwen and the problem, alone in the universe.

He’d been content to be outside her perception, as long as he could be with her.

Someone was sitting at her favorite table. A woman. For a second, Peter thought she had shoulder length blonde hair. For a second, he thought she was looking up at him, her head craned back like she was searching for a familiar figure in the sky. But then his vision cleared and he saw the woman at the table was a brunette, bent over her menu, chatting absently on her phone.

Peter swung over to the next building. He couldn’t see the restaurant from here, but he could still see the Baxter Building. He should have left. He wanted to leave. Instead, he found himself making the leap across the space between buildings, catching himself against the smooth glass of the Baxter Building. He silently apologized to its window washers for any smudges his gloves might leave.

He could see the Human Torch and his sister through the window. He shrank back automatically, worried the Human Torch would look up and see him. After a moment, he moved again, creeping across the building until he could watch them.

He didn’t know what he was doing. It was curiosity getting the best of him, he supposed, but all of a sudden he couldn’t help himself.

Johnny Storm and his sister were seated on the couch, with Johnny closer to him, and Peter felt like any moment he would look over and see Spider-Man, the guy who was trying so hard to avoid him, peeping in his living room window. But he didn’t look over, so Peter took the opportunity to watch him – really watch him.

The first thing Peter noticed was that he was out of his uniform, dressed instead in a pair of soft-looking jeans and a fitted t-shirt with what looked like grease stains on it. Peter hadn’t taken him for the type; maybe it had come that way. Maybe he’d paid a couple hundred bucks for a shirt with pre-made grease stains. Peter tried not to snort.

He looked comfortable, though. Relaxed. He was laughing at something his sister had said – something she hadn’t intended to be funny, if the look on her face was any indication.

That movie star smile Peter hated so much suddenly didn’t bother him at all. Johnny’s smile was different, Peter decided, when he was with his sister. When he wasn’t it playing it up for the crowds. For a second, Peter almost found himself liking him. Liking the way he smiled down at something on his phone.

Then Peter’s time was up; the Human Torch turned, glancing towards the window. Peter was faster than him, ducking down beneath the window’s ledge. After a second, he looked back up, but Johnny Storm had already looked away. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

Peter turned around and swung home.

* * *

The Fantastic Four took off faster than Johnny had ever believed possible. Part of him hadn’t thought it would ever work, as much as he wanted it. Who was going to look at a man on fire, Bigfoot’s rocky cousin, a guy who had all the powers of Gumby and none of the social graces, and a girl they couldn’t even see and decide they were going to be the next big thing?

But people loved them. Almost overnight, they loved them. Johnny couldn’t believe it, not after the way the city seemed to still debate whether Spider-Man was savior or menace. It made him almost angry on Spidey’s behalf; what did they have that Spider-Man didn’t?

Then he remembered the way Spider-Man had treated him when he’d only been trying to talk. Maybe it was just down to attitude. Spider-Man was definitely lacking in that department.

Johnny was trying to let it go. Who cared if Spider-Man didn’t like him when every celebrity in what seemed like the whole world was suddenly dying to meet him? There wasn’t a magazine cover in the country Johnny couldn’t grace with one phone call, so screw Spider-Man. Johnny could make other friends.

One day, he, Sue, and Ben got mobbed in Central Park by a group of little girls fresh out of their dance class who all wanted to be Sue or, failing that, to get her autograph and a photo with her – preferably while she was partially invisible.

“You know what the problem is?” Ben asked, watching as Sue held up invisible rabbit ears – the heat shimmer of her fingers was just barely on his radar -- behind a little girl’s head. Johnny noted that neither she nor the kid seemed to have figured out the problem with that yet.

“The National History Museum refused to put you on display?” Johnny asked. Ben grunted.

“No,” he said.

“The Museum of Modern Art refused to put me on display?” Johnny said, cutting him off when he next opened his big rocky mouth.

“The problem is,” Ben said, his voice rumbling through him like a landslide, “now we’re stuck with the name.”

“You love the name,” Johnny said, leaning back against one massive arm. Ben jostled him off. “You suggested the name.”

“Reed loves the name,” he corrected him. Johnny couldn’t argue with that. He’d seen Reed light up the first time Ben had said _it’s fantastic_ , and he hadn’t let the name go since. “And I didn’t do it on purpose. Fantastic Four. Sounds like a crappy cartoon.”

Several yards away, Sue was kneeling down to talk to the girls, her most serious face on. Watching Sue interact with fans always cracked Johnny up, remembering the way she’d always been at Baxter. Sue Storm, alone in the eye of the hurricane. At her worst, nobody could get through to her. Not even their dad. Not even Johnny.

Victor had been the only exception, once upon a time. Johnny didn’t want to think about Victor.

His point was, his sister had been able to make herself invisible long before the accident, and now the entire world’s eyes were on them. Fame had never exactly been his sister’s dream.

Sue turned half of the skin on her face invisible so the girls could see the musculature underneath and they all shrieked in gleeful disgust. The silly side of Sue, the one that actually knew how to smile, let alone pull a prank, was one he hadn’t seen in a while. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“That’s gross,” Ben grumbled.

“Look who’s talking,” Johnny said, tilting his head back to grin up at him.

“Whatever,” Ben said, shoving Johnny half over the low green railing. “I’m gonna go see if that hot dog cart’ll give me free food, on account of us being such big heroes and all.”

“Get me a pretzel!” Johnny yelled at his back. Ben waved a dismissive hand and Johnny settled back, content, for the moment, to watch his sister flounder in the center of attention.

Johnny got plenty attention himself, too.

There was a guy at a club opening. An actor, somebody told Johnny. A real up and coming star of the silver screen. He’d gotten famous while Johnny had been in military confinement, so he hadn’t seen any of his work and didn’t have the framework to be impressed.

He was hot, though, and the way he looked at Johnny made a shiver run down his spine. So Johnny bought him drink – nobody bothered checking his ID anymore, even though everyone knew he wasn’t yet twenty-one -- and waited for him to come over. He didn’t keep Johnny waiting.

They talked, they laughed. The guy was funny, Johnny would give him that. Charming, too. Johnny could see why he was so popular. And then he invited Johnny back to his apartment.

It had been a long time. Johnny said yes.

The sex was okay. Johnny had had worse. He hadn’t accidentally flamed on in the heat of the moment, so he guessed he mostly felt relief as he lay there on Egyptian cotton sheets, staring up at the ceiling and listening to this year’s favorite for the best supporting actor Oscar snore.

Wincing a little, Johnny climbed out of bed as quietly as he could and collected his clothes from the ground. Mr. Oscar Buzz had huge windows in his modern loft, and Johnny took a moment to stare at the lights of the city, all lit up around him like a glimmering wonderland.

He unlatched the window and slipped out through it, flaming on a second later. He didn’t look back. He didn’t leave a note. He went back to the Baxter Building and crept into his room, careful not to wake Sue, confident that Reed was still awake and down in the labs. He shucked his clothes again and climbed into his own bed, curling up on his side with the blankets he didn’t need pulled up high. He closed his eyes and thought about a figure in red and blue and wondered what was wrong with him.

All of a sudden, it was like Johnny could have had anybody he wanted. Any guy he wanted.

Too bad for him that the only guy he wanted was Spider-Man.

* * *

On an otherwise boring Saturday night, the police scanner picked up something interesting going down by the river. There wasn’t a whole lot of description – the police seemed confused about what, exactly, was happening. It didn’t matter. Peter was going half out of his skin with the need for action; he was in the costume and out the window before he even knew it.

When he got there, he ditched his backpack on a nearby rooftop. He found the cops all slumped unconscious on the ground. There was a strange mist hanging in the air; it seemed to twine around his wrists and ankles, almost clinging to him. His spider-sense prickled, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

“Hello?” Peter called. He crouched low as he moved forward, trying to make himself less of a target. One hand he kept held out in front of himself, palm out and webshooter at the ready. “Anyone there? Olly olly oxen free?”

He whistled, sharp, like he was calling for a dog. A flash of movement caught his eye and he spun, dropping low to the ground.

It was like a movie; the clouds parted and a figure appeared out of the mist, silhouetted by the moon. The figure was dressed in green, and a cape swirled around its ankles, as ephemeral as the mist. Something about it seemed not quite solid, like it was a reflection on a pane of glass. There was something wrong with its head, but the fog was too thick for Peter to make it out. This mist was messing with his mask’s lenses; everything had taken on a dirty, rainbow sort of tinge, like he was viewing things through an oil slick.

The back of his throat tasted funny. Metallic. He swallowed, trying to rid himself of the taste. No more accepting free pad thai from a food truck after hours, he told himself.

Or free pizza.

(“You know what I like about you, Spidey?” the guy behind the counter said as Peter lounged up against the glass case, his mask shoved up to his nose, wolfing down his second slice of two buck pizza. “You’re real New York. Now, them fancy Fantastic Four guys –“

Peter snorted, wiping grease from his mouth with the back of his glove. The guy pointed at him, nodding.

“Exactly,” he said. “Now, the fucking Human Torch, you wouldn’t catch him in this dump, now would ya?”

Maybe the ‘dump’ part was a sign Peter shouldn’t have asked for the third slice of pizza.)

The figure’s feet weren’t touching the ground. Peter’s spider-sense blared.

“Spider-Man,” the floating figure spoke in a strange, deep voice. “My name is…” he paused, seemingly for dramatic effect, “Mysterio.”

“That’s great,” Peter said. “For a second there I thought _you_ were asking _me_. Now that we’ve gotten the introductions out of the way, you want to tell me what the hell you think you’re doing here?”

The roundness of his head finally registered, the sleek colorless shine. The so-called, self-styled Mysterio had a tight green bodysuit under that cape, and his head – his head was – Peter squinted. Was that a bubble?

“Wait, hold up a second, timeout,” Peter said, one hand held out in front of himself. He gestured at the situation in front of him. “I just need to clear something up here: is that a _fishbowl_ on your head?”

The mist continued to creep. Something about it made him feel off-kilter.

“I come bearing a message,” Mysterio said, one arm held out in front of himself, a little limp, like a monster in a movie. His gloved index finger was extended, pointing directly between the lenses of Peter’s mask. His voice grated and fizzed, like it wasn’t human.

No, Peter told himself, crouching down low. (For momentum to jump, he told himself. Not to escape the strange accusation in Mysterio’s point. He’d never seen Mysterio before. Mysterio didn’t know him, and he didn’t know what he’d done.) That wasn’t right. There weren’t monsters, not like this, not like from Uncle Ben’s favorite B-movies – monsters didn’t come out of the mist. Peter had seen monsters. Peter knew how monsters got made.

 _It’s manipulated_ , he told himself. Some kind of audio filter in his mask, designed to the disguise his voice. It was fake. A trick. Like the dry ice mist still swirling around the docks. Give Peter an afternoon down at Ben’s old desk in the basement and he could do the same thing.

He needed to focus.

“Alright, ghost of Christmas future,” Peter said, leaping back and then springing forward, high over Mysterio’s fishbowl-covered head. “Stop rattling the chains and tell me what your game is. You got a message for me? Let’s hear it.”

It wasn’t his best landing, but he stuck it last second. The mist was throwing him off, and as much as he hated to admit it, the whole floating fishbowl head schtick was starting to creep him out. Peter had been looking for a workout, but he was beginning to think that the faster he ended this fight, the better.

He blinked, and Mysterio was gone. His spider-sense blared and he jerked around. Without any sound, in less than a second, Mysterio had someone gotten behind him.

“You haven’t paid for your crimes, Spider-Man,” Mysterio said. A chill crept up Peter’s spine. _He doesn’t know_ , he told himself. _You’ve never seen him before. He doesn’t know anything about you._ “That changes tonight.”

He saw the blow coming and he moved to avoid it, even as his senses dully shrieked at him to go the other direction. Something connected with the side of his face, hard enough to hurt even him. He reeled backward, carried more by the shock than the impact.

It wasn’t possible. That wasn’t the direction the blow had come from, but Peter’s stinging cheek didn’t lie.

His senses blared again, and this time Peter listened, ducking low. He felt the blow sweep over the top of his head, missing him by half an inch. He sprang backwards, alarmed now – that hit should never have almost landed.

For God’s sake, the man had an opaque fishbowl on his head. Peter was _better_ than this. He launched himself at Mysterio, determined to wrench the fishbowl from his head.

Instead, Mysterio’s arm came up, blocking Peter’s swing. A hidden blade in the side of Mysterio’s glove sliced deep into Peter’s shoulder. For a second, Peter couldn’t tell where the wild animal yell had come from, blinded by the pain. Then he realized it was from him.

He leapt back, trying to put some distance between him and Mysterio, but he landed wrong and stumbled over his own feet instead. He went down with a muffled curse, one hand pressed to his throbbing shoulder. That wasn’t right. Peter had been stabbed before; it had never felt like this.

Peter had a split second to realize that the knife had been poisoned before the world stopped making sense. Mysterio came at him from the left; his spider-sense told him to swerve to the right. He went with his what he could see instead of what his senses told him and got hit hard across the face, once, twice, three times. His own punches were met with air.

One particularly hard blow sent him sprawling to the ground.

He tried to raise his hands to defend himself as Mysterio approached, still floating a scant few inches above the ground, but his movements were clumsy and slow and useless. He dragged himself a few inches back, panting.

“He said you’d be more of a challenge,” Mysterio said, sounding almost bored.

“Who said – I don’t understand –” Peter gasped, hating the slur of his voice.

“Goodbye, Spider-Man,” Mysterio said in his strange, buzzing voice. He hefted Peter up high by the front of his costume, so high that his feet left the ground. Stunned, Peter couldn’t do anything but dangle in his grip.

Then Mysterio let go.

Peter was falling backwards before he even realized he’d been thrown off the dock.

The water was so cold it shocked him. He fought, at first. He did. But things kept changing. He was underwater, and then he wasn’t. He was upside down. There were eels wrapping around his legs, nipping at him, electricity crackling in their eyes, and they were dragging him down, down, down to the river’s floor. He kicked and clawed to no avail and then, suddenly, he was alone.

He wasn’t alone.

“Peter.”

He turned and saw her, stepping out of the gloom. The moonlight caught on her hair and glowed under her skin. The necklace he’d given her for her birthday glittered at her throat, tiny and silver. He’d gone toe-to-toe with a guy who hit like a tank for the photos he’d sold to buy her that necklace, and he would have done it again in a heartbeat.

Her smile was big and beautiful and all for him.

“Peter,” she said again, coming towards him. He opened his arms for her automatically. “Hey. Hi.”

“Hi, Gwen,” he said, chest all tight. He couldn’t remember why it hurt so much to see her, except for the fact that he loved her so much he could drown in it. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his masked face in the top of her head, just for a second. Her shampoo smelled like flowers.

“Why are you doing this to yourself, huh?” Gwen asked, leaning back and reaching up to cradle his face. Her big eyes were full of pain. “Why do you do this, Peter?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know anymore. I just gotta keep going.”

“No,” she soothed. She was wearing a green coat. He didn’t know why that struck him as important. “No, Peter, not anymore. Aren’t you tired?”

“I’m so tired,” he admitted, sagging against her. She seemed to bend back, collapsing under his weight. Why did he keep thinking about her, falling? He heard laughter, high and wild, like hooks under his skin.

Peter opened his eyes.

He was alone. Everything was murky and slow, like he was underwater. Panic clawed at his throat - the Hudson, he’d been by the Hudson, hadn’t he? Had he been thrown in? Was he at the bottom? He was pretty sure this was what drowning felt like, limbs slow and heavy, lungs burning.

Something bright sparked overhead, a falling star. Peter closed his eyes and made a wish.

* * *

“Hang on, hang on!” Johnny said, reaching desperately for that gloved hand flailing just above the water. He grabbed it and pulled and Spider-Man emerged, spluttering and flailing. He nearly pulled Johnny into the water half a dozen times, but finally Johnny managed to get him back on dry land.

He breathed a sigh of relief, grinning – and then Spider-Man shoved him, hard enough to knock Johnny over. Johnny flailed and flamed on by instinct as Spider-Man jerked away. He got to his feet, unsteady and dripping river water.

“Hey,” Johnny said. “Take it easy, man, I think you almost drowned down there.”

Spider-Man stumbled backwards, his hand clutched to his shoulder. In the light from his own flames Johnny could see blood trickling from between his fingers. Johnny swore, flaming off, and nearly fell all over Spider-Man in his rush to put pressure on the wound.

“I’m okay,” Spider-Man said, his voice hoarse. He was slurring his words. There was blood all down his side. Johnny’s heart beat hummingbird fast against his ribs. Spider-Man kept repeating it under his breath, "I'm okay. I'm okay."

“We need to get you to a hospital,” he said, and Spider-Man froze up under his hands.

“No hospitals,” he said. “I’m okay.”

His blood was soaking through Johnny’s gloves. Spider-Man was going to die on the docks with Johnny’s hands pressed to his bleeding chest. Johnny could barely breathe.

“You’re not okay,” he said. “You need help.”

“I heal fast,” Spider-Man gasped out even as he fell forwards. “I just need… I just need…”

He trailed off, breathing hard and slow.

“A hospital,” Johnny said.

“Yeah.” The words were numb, distracted, like Spider-Man couldn’t really hear him. He grabbed Johnny’s arm, his grip painfully tight. Heat leapt up under Johnny’s skin; he bit down against the urge to flame on. He wasn’t going to hurt Spider-Man, not when he was pretty sure Spidey didn’t even know what he doing.

“Did Gwen get away?” Spider-Man said.

“I don’t know,” Johnny said, trying to back Spider-Man up, lean him against a wall, but he was strong, strong like Ben was strong, and Johnny couldn’t move him if he didn’t want to be moved. His grip tightened on Johnny's wrist so suddenly Johnny had to bite down on a yell. “I don’t know who that is.”

“She has to get away,” Spider-Man said, his voice taking on a desperate edge. “Please, please, Gwen -”

“She’s, yeah - she’s fine,” Johnny said and just like that, Spider-Man relaxed, his punishing grip softening. Johnny’s wrist throbbed. “She’s, yeah, she got away, I saw her. Gwen’s okay. She’s fine. You’re the one who needs some help, man.”

Spider-Man swallowed hard, nodding tightly.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Gwen's, she's - I was in the river."

"Yeah, dude," Johnny said. He touched Spider-Man’s arm, gently. “You need a doctor.”

“Yeah,” Spider-Man agreed, clutching at Johnny a little. “My head’s all... I can’t, I can’t think. Gwen’s okay?”

“Yeah, I saw her, she’s fine,” Johnny lied. “She says you need to go a hospital, okay?”

“Yeah,” Spider-Man repeated, nodding. “That sounds like her… I’ve been having the worst dream…”

“It’s over now,” Johnny said. “It’s all gonna be okay, Spidey.”

“You think so?” Spider-Man said, but not in a sarcastic way. He genuinely sounded like he was asking Johnny, and for some reason that made Johnny want to cry. He swallowed down the feeling. He couldn’t help Spider-Man like that.

“Come on,” Johnny said, carefully guiding him. “You can’t go to a hospital in that suit, man. Secret identity, right? Come on – clothes. We gotta get you some clothes… Maybe you could stay here, and I could go – somewhere. There’s got to be a store still open, right?”

Spider-Man muttered something under his breath, pointing. Johnny looked up, squinting into the dark.

“You’ve got clothes up there?” he asked. “What, like a disguise?”

He bit his tongue after he said it. Spider-Man was so incredible, it was easy for him to forget that there was a real person under that mask – that Spider-Man was the disguise.

Spider-Man just nodded, his breathing labored. Johnny squeezed his arm.

“Okay,” he said. “You just – stay here, okay? I’ll get your stuff.”

He left Spider-Man leaning against the wall, promising to be back even though he didn’t really think Spider-Man understood, and took off, landing on the rooftop Spider-Man had indicated. It took him a moment to find Spider-Man’s clothes, one flaming hand held out in front of him in lieu of a flashlight, but after a second he spotted a backpack lying in a corner, its drab olive and grey colors blending into the night. It was secured by a few sticky strands of webbing, but they burned away easily enough.

He hesitated just one second, wondering – if he opened it up, would he find a wallet? A driver’s license? A picture and a name?

Then he remembered Spider-Man, injured, waiting down below. He kept the hand holding the backpack carefully flamed off as he swooped back down.

He was almost surprised to find Spider-Man where he left him, sagging against the wall like it was all that was keeping him up, his fingers splayed oddly against the side of it.

“Hey,” Johnny said. The masked face turned towards him, big blank eyes revealing nothing. Johnny swallowed hard and held out the backpack. “Spider-Man. I got your stuff.”

Spider-Man’s movements were clumsy. He pulled off his gloves first, then the top half of his costume. Johnny stuffed everything into the bottom of the backpack, not wanting to leave the costume out where anyone could take it. When he looked up Spider-Man had taken off his mask and was holding it limply in his hands. Johnny's breath caught in his throat.

Whatever Johnny had thought Spider-Man might look like, it wasn’t this unassuming, lanky guy. His hair stuck soaked to his forehead. His skin was pale and clammy. He had big dark Bambi eyes, staring at Johnny with murky suspicion.

Johnny made himself look away, down at the street. The costume was soaking wet, and Johnny made himself focus on hoping that Spider-Man wouldn’t be too mad about his ruined stuff later.

There was a plain t-shirt and a hoodie in the bag, along with a pair of jeans and beat up old sneakers. Johnny had to help when Spider-Man got his head stuck in the t-shirt. The thin fabric was already stained with blood.

Spider-Man was growing less and less steady by the second. His hands were clumsy, his gaze unfocused, but he was out of the costume now. The secret was hidden safely in the backpack in Johnny’s hands, and he was pretty sure no emergency room would turn them away with Spider-Man looking as bad as he did, bloodied and bleary.

“Hey,” Johnny said, touching his arm. “Spidey, are you with me?”

“Gwen,” Spider-Man said, and then he slumped forward, unconscious. Johnny only barely caught him in time to keep him from meeting the pavement face-first, surprised for a second by the leaden weight of him.

“Okay,” Johnny said, standing there with Spider-Man unconscious in his arms and river water and blood soaking through his three hundred dollar t-shirt. “This is not what I signed on for.”

* * *

Peter couldn’t figure out where he was. He was staring up at a white ceiling, and there was a lot of beeping. Somewhere nearby someone was crying. Then it clicked - he’d been nine, and he’d tried to climb a tree in Central Park to - what, what was it. To impress Harry, probably - that was the only reason he’d done anything at age nine. He remembered falling - or anyway, he remembered being on the ground.

Broken wrist. Last time he’d been in the ER. Harry had cried more than him, he remembered that, and – no, he had to stop thinking about Harry.

He turned his aching head to the side and found Johnny Storm sitting by his bed.

For a moment he couldn’t think. All he could do was stare at Johnny, sitting there with his head down and his phone in his hand. There was an expensive watch on his wrist, and a couple of leather bracelets. He was biting at his full lower lip, alternatively chewing on his thumbnail. His foot tapped a restless beat against the floor.

Peter reached up and touched his own bare face.

“No,” he said.

Johnny startled, nearly dropping his phone.

“You’re awake,” he said, staring at Peter. Staring at Peter’s face.

“What did you do,” Peter said, a flat accusation. Johnny bristled.

“What did I – I saved your stupid life!” he hissed. “You were in the river, and _then_ you were out of it, and bleeding, and rambling – You were _drugged_.”

“You took off my mask,” Peter said.

“First of all, _you_ took off your mask. And second -- what’s more important, your mask or your life?” Johnny demanded, whisper quiet and furious. His voice was so _righteous_. There were sparks in his dark eyes.

Peter grit his teeth. He grabbed the railing of the hospital bed and forced himself up into a sitting position.

“Hey, hey,” Johnny said, catching him by the upper arms. He stared at him, eyebrows knit together. “I don’t think you should be going anywhere. You really don’t look good.” He bit at his bottom lip. “I don’t think whatever you got hit with is out of your system yet.”

“I’m fine,” Peter said. He realized he’d been staring at Johnny's mouth and tried to push himself away, but he was shaking too much. Johnny squeezed at his elbows, his eyes wide like he was worried Peter was going to die on him right there. “I can’t be here.”

"You don't have much of a choice, man," Johnny said. "You can't even stand."

Peter heaved himself forward and the entire world pitched. Johnny wrestled him back, and Peter burned with the knowledge that normally he’d be able to fight him off with his pinky finger. Right now, though, all he could do was sag against the bed, breathing hard.

“Motherfucker,” he said, one hand over his eyes, not that it mattered. The Human Torch had seen his face. “Fuck.”

There was a long moment of silence, where Johnny tapped his foot against the linoleum and Peter tried not to scream.

“My name’s Johnny.”

Peter snorted, head in his hands. God, he couldn’t stop shaking. “Thanks. I completely didn’t get that from the television and the newspapers and all your screaming fans.”

“No, I meant,” Johnny broke off with an annoyed sign. “Someone tells you their name, you’re supposed to introduce yourself back.”

He trailed off at the last bit, sounding embarrassed, but when Peter looked up the expression on his face was open and hopeful. Something in his chest gave a twinge. There were a million reasons not to give the Human Torch his name. Some of them were probably even good.

But all he could think about was Mary Jane sitting on Anna’s porch steps and whistling low, _wow, Tiger, you look like you could use some friends_ , and May’s tired, worried gaze every morning. It would have been so easy to leave him there on the docks, and instead Johnny had dragged him to the emergency room because he’d been worried about him. Johnny wanted to be his friend.

"Peter," he said, his own name falling from his lips like a stone.

Johnny looked up, and the smile that spread across his face almost made Peter think the name was worth it.

"Peter," he repeated, like he was testing it.

“That’s all you get,” Peter said. The world had stopped spinning a little, but he was more nauseous than ever. “I need to get out of here.”

Johnny bit at his lip. He did that a lot. Peter didn’t know why he kept noticing it. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Peter grit out. “Did they take my blood?”

“What?” Johnny said.

“My blood, did they – did they take my blood?” Peter demanded, every molecule of him buzzing with anxiety, remembering – Curt Connors, Harry, his blood, the spider venom. His father’s voice on that tape in that abandoned, secret lab. _People will say I’m a monster for what I’ve done._

Peter couldn’t do it again. They couldn’t have taken his blood.

“No,” Johnny said, and Peter could have cried. “No, it’s – it’s busy. There was some kind of accident. I’ve been trying to get someone to see you --”

“Don’t,” Peter said, so sharply that Johnny recoiled. He took a deep breath in through his nose, screwing his eyes shut for a second. It wasn’t helping, snapping at Johnny Storm. He’d gotten Peter to a hospital. He was trying to help.

If only he hadn’t taken off his mask. He pushed a shaky hand up into his hair, trying to get himself to focus. It was done. It was over. He needed to be here, in the present.

“You’re hurt, Spi – Peter,” Johnny said. “They need to check you out.”

“They don’t,” Peter said. He slid his hand over his eyes, so he wasn’t tempted to do something stupid, like look Johnny Storm in his big earnest puppy dog eyes. “I heal. It’s how I do this.”

“That’s not – really?” Johnny said, sounding, God forbid, interested. Like Peter had time to explain all his secrets to another member of New York’s up and coming super-set right now. If only Johnny would leave for a minute, he could be on the ceiling and sneaking his way towards the nearest window already.

Except his legs felt like jelly and his fingertips felt buzzy and he wasn’t sure if he could stand, let alone stick, in this condition. He grit his teeth and told himself that had never stopped him before.

“I need to go _home_ ,” he repeated, putting as much _don’t fuck with Spider-Man_ behind his voice as he could manage in this state.

“Yeah?” Johnny said, apparently not intimidated. He stared back at Peter. “And where’s that?”

It was bait, and Peter wasn’t going to rise to it. He bit the side of his cheek and looked away.

Johnny blew out a sigh, pushing his chair back. It squeaked noisily against the linoleum. Before Peter had even registered it, his hand had shot out, wrapping around Johnny’s wrist.

“Wait,” he said.

Johnny glanced down at their hands, and then up at Peter. There something between fear and apprehension in his dark eyes. Peter forced his grip to relax, easing his fingers from Johnny’s wrist. He licked his lips, trying to find his words.

“Where are you going?” he asked. For one moment, he thought Johnny was just leaving him, and he found himself terrified.

He told himself it was just Mysterio’s poisoned blade talking.

Johnny pulled his hand away. There was something like betrayal on his face, and Peter resented it. He couldn’t betray Johnny, not when he didn’t owe him anything. Johnny should have just left him on that dock, either to drag himself home or die.

Like he knew what Peter was thinking – God, had he said it out loud? -- Johnny turned on his heel and wordlessly left the room.

Alone, Peter collapses back against the pillows, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he said, hand over his eyes so the room would stop spinning. What had he gotten hit with? He had no idea. “Fuck you, fishbowl.”

He laid there for what must have only been five minutes, but it felt like an hour, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to think about the sound of a woman crying down the hall, or whether Aunt May had noticed him missing yet, or what she would think if she had. He took deep breaths -- _don’t think about Harry, don’t think about Gwen, that was Gwen at the bottom of the river, you saw her, don’t think about her_ \-- and tried to play the Mysterio fight over again in his head.

It had just been some guy in a costume. He shouldn’t have been able to get to Peter like that. There was something he was missing.

“Okay,” Johnny said, coming back into the room. “Get up, if you can. Let’s go.”

“What?” Peter said.

“I said, let’s go,” Johnny said, scowling at him. “Do I need to spell it for you?”

Peter didn’t need him to say it a third time. He grit his teeth and forced himself up off the bed, relieved this time when his legs held underneath him. He was healing already, he could feel it; already the gash on his shoulder was starting to knit itself back together. It was going to be a painful night, but Peter had had worse.

Johnny was looking at him like he expected Peter to fall over at any second. Peter wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“So, what?” Peter said, steadying himself against the wall. “I can just walk out of here?”

“I’m _famous_ ,” Johnny said, like that should explain everything. “I gave the girl behind the desk a fake phone number, okay? You were never even here.”

“That has got to be so against protocol,” Peter muttered, focused mostly on putting one foot in front of the other and not tripping over air. “You in the business of medical fraud most nights?”

“You are so – here, give me your arm,” Johnny said, holding his own out.

Peter almost didn’t take it, but there was something about the look on Johnny’s face that made him reach out. He gripped his arm tightly, surprised at how warm he was through the fabric of his shirt. It felt nice, the heat of him chasing some of the chill from Peter’s blood.

Suddenly, walking out of here without falling on his face seemed a whole lot more doable.

“Where’s my mask?” Peter asked under his breath, grip tightening on Johnny’s arm. “Where’s my costume?”

“Watch the merchandise,” Johnny said, pulling away from him. He rubbed at his shoulder and, with a wave of guilt, Peter realized he didn’t know how hard he’d gripped him. His head was too fuzzy. He needed to get home, lock himself in his room where he wouldn’t hurt anyone by mistake.

Johnny forced his backpack into his hands. Peter was too stunned to wonder how he’d gotten it. “Here’s your dumb costume.”

“If someone _saw_ \--”

“But nobody did!” Johnny hissed, cutting him off. “Nobody saw it. I hid your secret. I kept it.” His breath curled out like smoke. “I did that for _you_.”

Sure enough, when Peter unzipped it to check there was his costume, wadded up into a damp ball and hidden beneath a crumpled copy of the Daily Bugle and Peter’s chemistry notes.

There was blood all over everything.

When he looked back at Johnny, he realized there was blood on him, too, staining his shirt. Johnny had Peter’s blood all over him, and Johnny had dragged him to the hospital, and now Johnny was breaking him back out. Johnny had protected his identity, and Johnny didn’t even know him.

“I’m an asshole,” he found himself saying out loud.

Johnny snorted.

“Are you just realizing that now?” he asked.

He slipped his hand into the crook of Peter’s elbow again when Peter faltered, pulling him along. For once in his life, Peter let himself be led. Johnny walked with confidence, like he knew where he was going. At the second, Peter wasn’t even totally sure which way was up and which was down. Johnny led him through the emergency room’s halls, out through the exit, and before Peter knew it they were outside. The night air was cool on his face, snapping him back to himself a little.

“Come on,” Johnny said, dragging him a couple of more steps away from the entrance. He pulled out his phone. “I’ll call you a cab.”

“No,” Peter said. He yanked his arm out of Johnny’s grip, maybe too hard if the way Johnny’s head snapped up was any indication. Peter took a deep breath in through his nose, reminding himself – Johnny was trying to do the right thing. Johnny was living up to his reputation as a hero. Johnny could just as easily have left him on the docks, where anyone could have pulled off his mask. “Thanks. No. I’ll be alright. I just need –” he wracked his mind for the right word. “Train. Subway.”

“Seriously?” Johnny said, sounding incredulous and more than a little angry. “You want to take the _subway_? Right now?”

“It’ll be alright,” Peter repeated, firmly. One way or another, with or without Johnny’s help, he was getting to the nearest subway station, and he was taking the train home.

He half hoped Johnny would leave him. There was something in his expression Peter couldn’t quite stand. Maybe, he thought, it was that Johnny could look into his eyes. Peter didn’t know what he was seeing. He didn’t want to know.

“Fuck,” Johnny said. Then he shoved his phone back in his pocket, turning away from Peter. “Do I at least get to know which way you’re going?”

They didn’t speak the entire walk to the subway station. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, either; Peter with his exposed face and his aching head, every inch of him feeling like a bruise, and Johnny – well, Peter’s first few impressions of Johnny hadn’t been of someone who was very good at being quiet. He walked a few steps in front of Peter the whole way, and the few times he glanced back – to make sure Peter was still following him? – he looked away again a half a second later, his gaze falling down to the ground. He stopped when he got to the steps on the subway station.

It took Peter a second to realize that he was waiting for him.

With Johnny’s assistance, Peter limped down the steps, into the cool, musty air of the subway station. It was dim and abandoned, the two of them alone in the dank, dirty station.

Peter dug around in his backpack, cursing under his breath, while Johnny whipped out a slim, sleek wallet that probably cost more than Peter saw from the Bugle in a year. He produced a Metrocard from it and swiped it through the turnstile, then stepped back.

“Go,” he told Peter. He wasn’t even looking at him.

Stunned, aching, and still groggy from Mysterio’s drugs, Peter went. Johnny followed after him and Peter couldn’t find it in himself to protest.

Peter didn’t have anything to say, and Johnny didn’t say anything else. They just stood side by side on the subway platform, Peter listing slightly to the right. The air began to stir; Peter didn’t need a spider-sense to know that the train was almost there. He took a step away from Johnny. The distance left him feeling cold.

The rush of the arriving train was what he needed, the sound rumbling through him up through the soles of his feet and the wind a sharp sting on his face. It came to a slow stop and after a moment of reluctance, the doors jerked open. Peter walked forward; Johnny stayed where he was.

“See you,” he heard Johnny say, almost lost over the other sounds of the subway platform, footsteps and snatches of conversation. It would have been easy for Peter to pretend he hadn’t heard him at all.

The car was one of the older ones, orange and yellow seats and a grey cast to the lighting that made everyone look about as wiped out as Peter felt. The car was crowded; Peter put his head down, planted himself the way only he could, and pretended he was leaning on the metal rail, his back to the platform. Someone brushed past him, too close, their shoulder slamming into his, and they grunted a little in pain, shooting him a look as the bustled past.

Any other day, Peter might have felt bad.

On instinct, he turned and looked Johnny Storm in the eyes. The Human Torch, standing there on a subway platform going the opposite direction of the Baxter Building, his hands tucked into his pockets, Peter’s blood on his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Peter told him.

The doors closed. He slumped against the rail and tried not to fall asleep before the train hit his stop.

* * *

Alone in his room, Johnny googled “Peter” and “Spider-Man” and sifted through the results idly, not really expecting to find anything until he saw it: all the photo credits to one Peter Parker, Daily Bugle. He found an Instagram, scrolling through dazzling, dizzying aerial shots of New York until he landed on a black and white portrait of the artist. He was in profile, head bowed, eyes closed – but it was definitely him.

Spider-Man’s real name was Peter Parker. He had a wide, sensitive mouth and thick eyebrows and his hair was an unruly mess. Johnny’s heartbeat kicked into high gear just looking at him.

Peter Parker was handsome, when he wasn’t bloody and fresh out of the river.

The photo’s caption read: _pro-tip, bug boy: don’t make your password your girlfriend’s favorite movie_ and a row of multi-colored heart emoji, hashtagged #thewizardofoz.

The name also granted him a Facebook page, mostly bare. Peter’s face was mostly hidden by a clunky-looking camera in the profile picture, but he was smiling in this one, the one visible eye crinkled up in his glee.

He never posted, but he was tagged in a million photos, along with a girl: Gwendolyn Maxine Stacy.

Johnny stared at her profile picture, all big eyes and blonde hair, smiling for the camera. Poking around her page brought him plenty: tons of friends, a job as Oscorp, two dozen photos of her with Peter – she was beautiful in every one, and he looked startlingly at home in his own skin when he stood next to her, no hunched shoulders or guarded eyes. She was her high school’s valedictorian. She’d been accepted to some kind of special program at Oxford.

She was dead.

The outpouring of grief was immense. Classmates, family members, people she’d worked with – all of them, devastated.

There was nothing from Peter. There was no activity on Peter’s accounts after Gwen Stacy’s death at all.

The door cracked open.

“Hey,” Sue said, leaning in the doorway. “I was thinking I was maybe going to make some popcorn, put on a movie, if you want to… Johnny? Are you alright?”

Johnny shook his head, hunching his shoulders. He swiped futilely at his eyes. “I think I just found out why Spider-Man quit.”


	4. Chapter Three

"Hey, Gwen."

Peter set the flowers down and then took two steps backwards, hunching his shoulders against the late fall chill. He breathed out, slow.

It had been three weeks since he’d fought Mysterio, and Peter hadn’t seen him since. He’d gone looking. He’d returned to the scene of the incident. He’d swept through recent crime reports, waiting to hear anything about a man in a fishbowl helmet. There was nothing. It was like Mysterio had never even been there at all, and it left Peter feeling off-kilter.

He’d had to come back here, to the only person who had ever made him feel like everything made sense.

“It’s been a while, I know. I’m sorry. You know what – you know how I get. And I am having…” he broke off with a little laugh. “It’s been crazy, Gwen. Just totally, completely…” He held his hands up to his head, miming an explosion. “I had this stupid idea, once, that my life would be less ridiculous if there were a couple other costumes around, but turns out that was just the worst...”

He sighed.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I know, I know – you told me, I could find a reason to complain in paradise. I made so much fun of you the first time you said that to me – who talks like that, huh, Gwen? Sounded like my aunt. What I would give to – I gotta stop this. You’re right.”

He took a breath, blinking too hard. “It’s not all bad. There’s – there’s a guy, the Human Torch. Kept me from drowning in the Hudson. Saw my face and didn’t put it all over the internet. Wants to be friends or something, like I don’t have enough trouble as it is. Be nice, yeah, yeah, I know.”

There was no reply except for the rustle of the grass, the few leaves left on the trees. A bird trilled.

“I love you, you know that?” he told her headstone, choking on his own voice. He dragged the back of his hand across his eyes. “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna go. I’ll see you soon.”

Peter turned, took a few steps forward, and finally lifted his gaze. He stopped in his tracks.

The Human Torch was in the graveyard. He was flamed off and underdressed for the weather in a plain t-shirt and jeans, and he was staring at the headstones a few yards away with his hands tucked into his pockets.

“You following me?” Peter called out before he could stop himself.

Johnny’s head snapped up and suddenly Peter felt like a deer in the headlights. He raised one hand and Johnny's shoulders relaxed, his breath curling up like candle smoke.

"Sorry," he said. "I was thinking, I guess."

“You guess?” Peter said. “You’re standing in the middle of a graveyard, and you guess you were thinking?”

“Yeah, about my dad,” Johnny snapped.

“I -- your dad’s buried here?” Peter said.

Now Johnny was looking at Peter like he was the crazy one.

“No, but he’s,” his breath hitched a little, so now Peter felt like both the crazy one and a jerk on top. “He’s not buried anywhere else, either. There was a… there was a thing, and…”

“Hey,” Peter said. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything about that, okay?”

“I don’t know,” Johnny said, shrugging, suddenly just some guy Peter’s own age, a little lost and a little awkward. “I just thought - this is where you go, right? To remember people?”

“Yeah,” Peter said after a beat. “Usually just the people who are actually buried here though.”

Johnny tipped his head back, half-groaning, half-laughing. “Can I just say? I was not expecting you to be this much of a jerk.”

Peter shrugged helplessly. “I have my moments. Hey. It’s, y’know - you do what you have to do.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, nodding, biting his bottom lip. Peter glanced away. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, man,” Peter said, looking out at the long rows of headstones. “We all got our own stuff.”

“No, I mean,” Johnny gave him a sudden, shy smile. “I was following you. Just a little bit. I mean - you don't call, you don't write. I left you sky messages – didn’t even know I could do that, but I wanted to know if you were, y'know. Okay.”

"Yeah," Peter said, shrugging. What could he say? _No, I was drugged and left for dead by a man wearing a fishbowl on his head, because that’s where my life is at_? No, and he hadn't been for a year and a half now? Maybe longer. Peter couldn't remember the last time things had felt really, truly okay. Like things would one day be alright. "Yeah, man, I'm okay."

Johnny didn't look like he bought it.

"You sure?" he said.

Peter hung his head, shaking it. He felt like he should be honest here, of all places. She would have wanted him to be honest. "Nah. Not really."

“Yeah, I know that feeling,” Johnny said. “You got friends?”

Peter thought about Flash’s Facebook friend request, sitting unanswered, and about Harry’s wild laugh, “he rescues kittens from trees, man,” and the handful of Gwen’s friends who he passed silently on the street sometimes, the second glances spared his way.

Gwen had had so many friends, but then she’d been so easy to love.

“Honestly?” he said. “No.”

Johnny’s breath curled upwards, smoke without a cigarette. “Me neither.”

"You got your team," Peter said. "That's more than I got."

"It's not the same, though, right?" Johnny said, shrugging one shoulder. “Listen – I don’t know about you, but I could really use an actual friend right about now. How about it?”

For just one second, Peter let himself want it, a shoulder to lean on again. Someone to talk to. But he’d only ever had one friend, really, and look how things with Harry had turned out. He shook his head, and tried not to let the way Johnny’s face fell get to him too much.

“It’s not a good idea,” he said. “The people around me – they get hurt.”

“Okay,” Johnny said after a second. “Okay, yeah, I get that. But I bet most people around you can’t light themselves on fire, right?”

He smiled at Peter, bright and easy, and Peter thought – he didn’t know what he thought. But he felt something, deep in his chest, where he hadn’t felt anything in a long time. Johnny had a point, too – he couldn’t be shot. He couldn’t fall. His throat tightened at the idea of it, someone it would be safe to be around. Someone who was a lot harder to hurt.

“Nah,” he admitted, hands in his pockets. “Most people I know can’t do that.”

Johnny grinned.

“I’ve already seen your face, man. What have you got to lose?” he asked. “You hungry?”

“I could eat,” Peter admitted, taking a step forward. Just one foot in front of the other, he told himself. Just like he’d been doing since that night at the clock tower.

“Cool,” Johnny said. He swung his arm around Peter’s shoulders as they fell into step, warm enough to chase away the day’s chill. “Superhero friends, alright. How’s two dollar pizza sound? My treat.”

* * *

Spider-Man was so much more in person. Half of Johnny had hoped he’d stop feeling like this once he got to know him, that he’d get over his stupid crush on the costume, that the man inside it would be obnoxious, full of himself, or just the opposite of the hero Johnny saw on TV. The shallowest part of him had thought that maybe, if the mask came off, and Spider-Man was ugly underneath, Johnny would lose interest. Go out there, find himself a hot, regular guy, get married, and adopt 2.5 kids. Buy a house in the suburbs and live the dream life – or the dream life his dad had wanted for him, anyway.

But Peter was weird and funny and had big brown eyes and hair that Johnny wanted to sink his fingers into and a laugh that made Johnny want to keep cracking jokes just so he could hear it again.

Johnny wanted to kiss him so bad. It was unfair that the mask came off and this was the guy underneath. And he was smart – not just book smart, Baxter smart, even, no. He was smart about people. Barely two weeks hanging out together, and he already seemed to have so many little details about Johnny memorized. It was all stupid stuff – what he liked on a burger, or a favorite movie he’d mentioned, a car he’d pointed out parked on the street – but it made him feel like he had all of Peter’s attention to himself. Like Peter really saw him, the way nobody had in years, not since Sue had stopped looking. He’d gotten a glimmer of it again with Reed, but Reed had Ben and Sue and his genius. When Johnny was with Peter, he felt like he had all of him.

It made him feel like he did when he won a race, except all the time. A constant high. High on life. High on the city. High on Spider-Man.

“Go grab us a table,” Peter said, snagging the offered twenty from Johnny’s fingers as the line finally let up enough to let them into the Shake Shack. “I’ll order.”

They were getting lunch not far from Peter’s work. Johnny had texted, hoping he’d be able to hang out, and Peter had sent back that he was dropping off photos of Spider-Man and told Johnny to meet him outside the Daily Bugle building in Midtown.

Johnny still couldn’t believe he’d taken all those photos of himself. All those dizzying, death-defying aerial shots – and Peter hadn’t even been behind the camera, because he’d been in front of it. Was there nothing Spider-Man couldn’t do?

The inside of the restaurant was packed, and nobody seemed too ready to give up their spot. It seemed like this was the only place Johnny’s celebrity didn’t matter: inside of a Shake Shack in midtown during lunch hour. Nobody so much as looked up at him.

Johnny was two seconds away from flaming on just so the nearest table would flee in terror.

“What’s with the face?” Peter asked, coming up behind him with their food.

“I’m a celebrity,” Johnny said, gesturing at himself. “Do they know I’m a celebrity?”

“It’s lunchtime in Midtown,” Peter said. “I can guarantee you, nobody cares.”

“This is completely unfair,” Johnny said. “Where’s the special treatment?”

“To be fair, I don’t care, either,” Peter added in.

“Thanks,” Johnny said.

“Alright, whatever, so we’ll eat somewhere else,” Peter said, and Johnny didn’t have time to argue with him before he was leaving the restaurant, Johnny quick on his heels.

“Where are you going?” Johnny asked, catching up with him.

Peter’s head was tipped back, his gaze fixed on the sky. No, Johnny realized, not the sky – on the rooftops. Despite the fact that he wasn’t looking, he weaved between the pedestrian traffic like an expert, quickly sidestepping a tourist staring at a map and aggressively shouldering past a guy in a sleek business suit who threw him a dirty look. Johnny almost laughed.

“There,” Peter said, stopping so suddenly Johnny walked into his back. Peter didn’t even have the good graces to budge. He was pointing up, and he glanced over his shoulder to grin at Johnny, wild and free. “What do you think?”

Johnny glanced up.

“About what?” he asked. “It’s a roof.”

“So call it a picnic, then,” Peter said. He raised one heavy eyebrow. “What, are you trying to tell me you’ve never --?”

“Never, what?” Johnny asked, frowning, but Peter only cast another meaningful glance at the rooftop, still grinning that happy grin, like he didn’t have a care in the world. It was the kind of look Johnny had seen in the old photographs he’d found on his abandoned Facebook page, the kind Johnny never imagined cast his way.

“Lunch with a view!” Peter said, laughing. There was something almost goading in his voice, like he could get Johnny to do whatever he wanted. He probably could. “Come on. Come _on_.”

“The park is like, right over there,” Johnny starting to say, gesturing, but Peter cut him off with a groan.

“Seriously? Seriously?” Peter said, then took one look at Johnny’s face and blew out a breath. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Johnny to jog after him.

“What?” he said, catching up with him and grabbing his elbow, laughing at the mock offended look on Peter’s face, the wrinkle between his brows and the way he was biting the side of his mouth like he was trying to keep from smiling. He cracked up after a second, head thrown back, like Johnny was the funniest thing in the world.

“Torch,” he said, still laughing, beaming at Johnny. Johnny’s breath caught in his throat. “You can _fly_.”

“But,” Johnny said weakly, trying to think of a good comeback, but it was hard when his entire world at that moment was the sheer joy on Peter Parker’s face. “There’s pigeons?”

“Give me that,” Peter said with a scoff, snatching their lunch out of his hand. “Come on, we’re dining al fresco today. Literally.”

He planted a hand on Johnny’s back and shoved, a touch too hard. Johnny stumbled forward, turning to glare, but Peter wasn’t looking at him. He had his head tilted back again, staring up at the top of that building with longing on his face. He looked like he couldn’t stand to be on the ground another moment.

“Fine,” Johnny said, giving in. He guessed he could eat lunch on a dirty rooftop if it would make Spider-Man happy.

He stepped back until he had a clear patch of sidewalk and then he flamed on. There was a handful of gasps from a woman walking her miniature schnauzer and a small group of tourists who all pointed, whipping out their phones, but Johnny could barely hear them over the sound of Peter laughing as he took off.

When Johnny glanced back down at the ground, Peter had vanished. He landed lightly on the roof, snuffing his flames, and took a moment to glance around. He wondered what was so special about it. To him, it just looked grey and dirty. There were a million better places to eat lunch.

Peter joined him a second later, skittering up the side of the building and swinging himself up over onto the roof. He whistled, laughing as he made contact with the concrete.

“Look at that view!” he exclaimed, tossing Johnny’s order to him.

“I’m seeing it,” Johnny said, though what he was supposed to be looking at besides a bunch of old buildings escaped him.

“See?” Peter said, as if he hadn’t spoken. He gestured wildly out over the city as he stuffed half his burger into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and declared, “Look at that! Look at it! Greatest skyline in the world, and we get to see it like this. Nobody else gets this view, not like this.”

He knocked his shoulder into Johnny’s, grinning at him. There was a smear of ketchup on his lip, red like blood. Johnny wanted to lean over and lick it away.

“It’s good,” Peter said, and Johnny snapped out of it, his gaze leaving Peter’s mouth. Peter wasn’t even looking at him, though – he was staring out at the rooftops, his gaze so intense it took Johnny’s breath away.

He wished anyone had ever looked at him the way Peter looked at New York City.

“The burger?” he asked, and Peter snickered, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, like if it he let it all go he would never stop smiling. Johnny wished he wouldn’t hold himself back.

“Nah,” he said, turning to smile at Johnny, carefree and wild at the top of the world. “No, no – this, having someone to share this with.”

For a second, it seemed perfect, like if Johnny’s life was a movie then Peter would lean in and kiss him, up here on top of the world with just them and the pigeons.

But Baxter smart boys like Peter Parker had never liked Johnny like that, and Johnny wasn’t stupid enough to think he could ever be good enough for Spider-Man.

“What was it like?” Johnny asked. “When whatever – happened to you, happened to you?”

He hadn’t asked, not up until now. Part of him didn’t really want to know. As long as parts of Spider-Man stayed a mystery, it kept him from being completely real.

Peter laughed, a little awkwardly, turning his face away. He swallowed and said, “It was, aha, uh. Confusing. To start with. Overwhelming.” He glanced back at Johnny, a huge grin on his face. “And then it was incredible.”

After the accident, Johnny had spent five days burning nonstop, exploding at intervals. Uncontrollable. Terrifying. Then they’d stabilized him, and he’d found his dad terrified, his sister no longer visible to the naked eye, Reed gone, and Ben – a guy he’d known for all of five minutes before they’d hijacked their way to Planet Zero together – transformed into a thing.

He swallowed hard, disguising the motion by shoving his burger in his mouth. He breathed deep, chewed, swallowed. Then he asked, “What’s it like? What you do? Does it feel – what does it feel like?”

It took Peter a long moment to answer.

“Everything,” Peter said. “I’m aware of everything, all the time. It’s like I’m in the center of this big spider web and…” He spread his hands wide and waved his fingers around, an imitation of spider legs. “I can feel everything else on it.”

“How does that not drive you crazy?” Johnny asked.

“I, uh,” Peter said, laughing. His eyes crinkled up at the corners. “You’ve, you’ve met me, right? That’s kind of a redundant question.”

Johnny nodded along, pensive. He was quiet for a minute, staring out at the city skyline Peter loved so much.

“I can see heat. And I feel it, just under my skin.” He swallowed and echoed Peter’s statement, “All the time. I did these – when I first got my powers, when I was,” he choked, not sure how much to say. _Was allowed outside_. It seemed so pathetic, sitting next to Spider-Man, the epitome of freedom. Spider-Man wouldn’t have let anyone keep him in that cage. Johnny forged on anyway. “I was outside, and it was snowing. Big thick flakes, you know? The kind that stick to your eyelashes. And I couldn’t feel the cold at all.”

Peter was quiet for a long moment, just nodding, his eyes fixed on the streets down below them. If Johnny closed his eyes, he’d still be perfectly aware of him, blazing at Johnny’s side. He ran a little hotter than most people, and Johnny was sort of in love with that fact. If he stood in a crowd and closed his eyes, he’d still be able to pick Peter Parker out of it.

“Do you miss it?” Peter asked.

Johnny shrugged. “I don’t need a jacket in winter anymore.”

“You know, that’s not an answer,” Peter said.

Johnny could lean over and kiss him. Johnny could do it and not even worry about Peter shoving him off the building, because Johnny could fly. But then Peter smiled at him, another quick, halfway nervous thing, just the tiniest quirk of his lips before he returned to gazing out over the city, idly chewing on his burger.

Johnny could kiss this boy and then fling himself off the building, no flames, for ruining the best thing he’d had since his powers. He sucked at the last of his soda instead, the paper cup soggy from the way the ice melted under the touch of his hand.

“No,” he lied. “I don’t miss it.”

* * *

Peter saw the invitation to the Reilly family reunion lying on top of the kitchen table and said, automatically, “Aunt May, please don’t make me go.”

“Good morning to you, too,” May said, pressing a plate of scrambled eggs into his hands.

“What do I have to do?” Peter asked. “Do I have to beg? Plead? I can’t go to that circus again, Aunt May. I have flashbacks just thinking about last time.”

“It wasn’t that bad!” May said, her voice rising to the pitch of someone who knew she was on the losing side of the argument but was too stubborn to give in and wave the white flag. Peter grabbed a fork from the drawer as quirked an eyebrow at her.

“The MASH theme is playing in my head,” he said, starting to hum it.

“Little Kathleen buries you in the sand one time, you never forget it,” May said, rolling her eyes.

“’Little Kathleen’ is a linebacker,” Peter countered around a mouthful of eggs. “And she’s got four siblings for backup.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t made that crack about female football players…” May said.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, shoving the empty plate into the sink and slotting his hands in his pockets. This was an old argument, but it didn’t feel the same without Uncle Ben cutting into it, giving May the perfect opportunity to remind him that Kathleen Reilly and her siblings may have been the ones to bury Peter, age thirteen, in the sand, but Uncle Ben had been the one to craft the mermaid tail instead of digging him out.

(“My greatest work!” he’d say. “And you couldn’t take a picture?”)

Aunt May seemed to notice it, too – the missing piece in this long familiar family debate. She fell silent, running a dishrag over a plate long dry. Peter leaned back against the counter, head tilted to the side, just looking at her – the downward pull of her mouth, the lines on her forehead that hadn’t been there last time they’d played this scene out. His fault.

“Please, Aunt May,” he said. “Don’t make me go. I am begging here.”

“You’re an adult now, I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do,” she shot back. Then, after a pause, “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Peter said, shaking his head. “This one’s me, May. _I’m_ sorry. But I just – I just can’t, this year.”

It would have been the first time he’d seen the extended Reilly crowd since Gwen’s death. He couldn’t handle another round of well-meaning people coming up to him and putting their hands on his shoulders, saying they’d heard what had happened and how sorry they were, and she seemed like such a nice girl, too. Or worse yet, people _giving him space_ \-- in a way that felt like they might as well be shouting at him.

Stilted, knowing he was a freelancer and that it didn’t really make a difference, he added, “I got work.”

May sighed. “Alright. You don’t have to go.”

He sighed, shoulders slumping with relief, and bent to kiss her forehead. “Thank you.”

“Maybe Anna next door will send over a casserole,” May said. “Lord knows I can’t trust you not to live on takeout.”

“Oh, please no,” Peter groaned, and that was the end of it, more or less.

They didn’t talk about it again until the morning of May’s departure.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” she asked, standing on the opposite side of the door from him. “It’s not too late to come with me, you know.”

Down on the curb, the cab honked – for the third time.

“I promise, I’m going to be fine,” Peter said, bending to kiss her cheek. “Now go, before he drives away without you. Hey, I mean it, I’ll be alright.”

“I know,” May said, still wearing that troubled expression, but finally she descended the steps, snapping at the cabbie that she was coming already. Peter ambled after her, reaching out and snagging her suitcase, getting it squared away in the trunk even as May insisted that she could’ve done it.

“Love you,” Peter said as she got into the cab.

“Love you, too,” May said, and then felt the need to add, “No parties while I’m gone!”

No parties -- as if Peter had friends. He promised anyway, standing on the sidewalk and waving as the cab drove off. He glanced up and saw Mary Jane in the window of her aunt’s house, staring down at her cell phone like she hadn’t been looking at him.

No parties. Yeah, he bet Mary Jane wished.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. He ate dinner – Chinese takeout, his usual go-to order from his usual go-to place – in front of his desk, working on a paper for his chemistry class that wasn’t really holding his attention. He put it aside after he found himself typing the same sentence twice in a row.

He checked his phone idly, not really expecting anything – he’d already heard from May, arrived safely at her cousin’s house. There was one text from Johnny, a link to some video Peter didn’t click on. He shook his head, and put the phone facedown on the desk.

His right webshooter was on the fritz, and it was messing up his reaction time. It was probably residue gumming up the nozzle again, but he’d thought he’d fixed that issue ages ago, so he pulled over the lamp and settled down to take the webshooter apart at his desk.

It was soothing work. Take the webshooter apart, clean it, put it back together again. He finished and started on the left one, too, just for maintenance. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed this, the simple act of putting something together with his hands. Making something that worked.

His mind started running away from him, even as he felt his shoulders start to loosen, some of the tension leaching out of his muscles. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed inventing, but suddenly it all came crashing down on him all over again, like a tidal wave. For so long he hadn’t thought about it at all, and now it was like he was reliving that time down in the basement, sitting at Uncle Ben’s old work desk and putting the prototype webshooters together, using an old wreath as a target. The way he’d had to carefully shave a small patch of webbing out of his hair, hoping May wouldn’t notice – or that she wouldn’t comment.

All of a sudden, he wanted to build something again.

He pulled open his desk drawer, rummaging through old photographs and papers until he could hit the catch for the hidden compartment, and they were right there, right where he remembered, the plans he’d drawn up for a new model of webshooters over a year ago. He drew them out with reverence, eyes tracking the scrawl of his own handwriting, a harsh comparison to the clean lines of his sketches. He liked to be precise there.

There was something else underneath the webshooter plans, too. The paper was littered with little sketches of – what, tiny, rounded spiders? What had he been planning to do, rain them down on muggers to freak them out?

Then, like a bolt of lightning, he remembered – it had been a 3 AM kind of idea, him buzzing all over after an unproductive night. It had been the buzzing, actually, that had made him think of it – the very different sort of buzz he got before a gun was drawn, or when something big and dangerous was about to go down.

He wanted to tap into that sense, to tune into it like it was a radio signal. He wanted to build something that would let him do that.

Tiny little spiders, stuck under a collar or in a shoe, whose signal he could follow. Spider-tracers.

He raised his hand to his head, spreading his fingers to mime an explosion of brilliance, and started to laugh. He loved his mind. It had been so long since he’d felt like building anything that he hadn’t remembered how _good_ it felt, having an idea. His fingers itched to bring it to fruition, and then next thing he knew he’d pushed himself out of his chair and run from the room.

May wasn’t home, so there was no reason to take to the stairs normally. He vaulted over the banister instead, landing neatly in a crouch.

It felt good to _move_.

All his stuff was in the basement, shoved underneath Uncle Ben’s old work desk. May didn’t go down there unless she was grabbing something from the freezer, so it made a safe hiding spot. He pushed past Ben’s old bowling trophies and a box of odds and ends, dragging it out. He’d marked the box Peter’s Photography Junk in big black block letters. There was dust all over the top of it; it left his hand grey and filthy when he wiped it across the top of it.

He hadn’t touched it in over a year. He sat there, crouched on his haunches for a long moment, and then he sucked in a breath through his teeth and lifted it up, carefully weighing it in his hands before he began the trek back upstairs.

He’d just entered his bedroom when he caught a flash of light out of the corner of his eye and swiveled around, only to find Johnny on the other side of the window.

Johnny was beautiful, all lit up. Peter had seen him flame on up close a handful of times now, and it was mesmerizing to watch the way Johnny seemed to glow from the inside for just a second before the flames overtook. The way his eyes and his mouth glowed through the fire.

The flames were so distracting it took Peter a moment to realize Johnny’s fire was flickering. Before he knew what he was doing, he was hauling the window up. Johnny flamed off as he scrabbled for the sill, and Peter grabbed at him instinctually, heedless of the fire.

It didn’t matter, it turned out. Johnny’s flames extinguished the moment Peter put his hands on him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, hauling him over the sill.

“Didn’t think I’d make the flight back to the Baxter Building,” Johnny gasped, clinging to him weakly. He was trembling a little – from exhaustion or exertion, Peter couldn’t tell. “Your place was closer.”

“Okay, c’mon, through the window,” Peter said, helping him into the room. “Bed?”

“Not up for that kind of action,” Johnny said, smiling woozily at Peter.

“What?” said Peter. Johnny was dead weight in his arms. He hefted him up easily, one of Johnny’s arms around his neck and his legs slung over Peter’s arm.

“Oh, you meant lying down – yeah, that sounds good.” Johnny laughed breathlessly as Peter side-stepped a pile of dirty laundry and lowered Johnny onto the mattress. His fingers caught in Peter’s shirt, tugging. “Hey. I did something.”

“Yeah?” Peter said. Johnny’s face was very close to his, grin bright and eyes too shiny. His face was all scraped up. “What’d you do?”

Peter disentangled Johnny’s hands from his shirt gently and moved so he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“There was this big fire,” Johnny said, sounding almost dreamy. He seemed to curl towards Peter, like he was seeking his warmth. For all Peter knew, he was; he had no idea how Johnny’s powers worked, but he wanted to find out.

“Yeah, there tends to be one of those when you’re around,” Peter said.

Johnny wasn’t so out of it that he couldn’t roll his eyes at the bad joke. “A real fire. This building went up, and there were people inside. You didn’t see it on the news?”

Guilt twinged through Peter. He knew, in his head, that Spider-Man couldn’t be around to save everyone, but his heart? That hadn’t gotten the memo so much. The first few weeks back in the mask, it had felt like he had to make up for the time he spent out of it, pushing himself to the limit, almost like he was waiting for disaster to strike just so he’d have someone to save.

Then May had touched his face one morning at breakfast, fingers gentle just beneath a fresh bruise, and said his name like he was breaking her heart. He’d just cupped his hand over hers and held it there for a moment, his eyes closed. He’d still gone out that night.

He knew he couldn’t save anyone, but how hard was it to have the news on while he worked on a paper for school?

“What happened?” he asked Johnny. There was a cut on his forehead, above his eye, though how Johnny would have gotten cut through the fire was beyond Peter. It must have happened either before or after. Peter mentally shook his head. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Johnny was here, in his room, in his bed, and he was bleeding.

He remembered his own blood on Johnny’s shirt, grabbing a t-shirt – clean, mostly – from the floor of his room and balling it up.

“Hard to explain,” Johnny said, coughing a little. Peter pressed the shirt to the sluggishly bleeding cut on Johnny’s forehead, and Johnny let him. “I got in okay, but then there were these kids and – I couldn’t carry them, not flamed on, but it was so hot and I had to get them out and I guess I just – I absorbed it.”

“You absorbed --?” Peter said, frowning. “What do you mean, you absorbed it?”

“I thought – it’s flame, I’m flame,” Johnny said. He shrugged one shoulder. His hand came up to hold the shirt against his own head; it took Peter a second to remember to pull his own hand away when Johnny’s warm fingers brushed his. “People were in trouble. They needed me. Had to be worth a shot, right?”

“Johnny,” Peter said, mind working a mile a minute, thinking about Johnny pulling foreign fire into himself. He drummed his fingers against his knee. “And it worked?”

“Sort of,” Johnny said. “Flames went out. It – it hurt.” He swallowed hard, and something strange happened in Peter’s chest, like a phantom twinge. It hurt to think about Johnny hurting. “I couldn’t hold it, either – felt like it was going to tear itself out of me. I flew straight up and let it go, but then…”

He broke off with a little laugh, gesturing to himself.

“Then you came here,” Peter filled in. He put his hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Good. That was a good decision.”

Johnny’s dark eyes shone. He licked his lips – Peter tracked the motion – as he said, “Yeah?”

Peter’s hand cupped his jaw instead, tilting Johnny’s face to look at a scrape and accidentally brushing the corner of his mouth. “Yeah…”

The front door slammed and he jumped, letting go of Johnny. Johnny startled too, making to sit up. Peter pushed him down automatically.

Mary Jane’s voice rang out bright and loud, “Tiger? It’s the casserole delivery, straight from the famed Anna Watson herself. She gave me her key. Peter? Where are you?”

Johnny shot Peter a shaky grin. “Girlfriend?”

“Neighborhood pest, more like, now shh,” Peter said. There were footsteps on the stairs; he fumbled for the electronic lock on the door. “I’m in my room, MJ! Just – gimme a sec, because I’m –”

The door swung open before Peter could lock it; Mary Jane, dressed in skinny jeans and a sequined sweater, gaped at the scene in front of her – the Human Torch stretched out in Peter’s tiny bed and Peter crouched over him protectively.

“Just so naked,” Peter finished pathetically. Johnny burst out laughing.

“I wish,” he wheezed. Peter valiantly resisted the urge to put his hand over Johnny’s mouth. “Oh, ow.”

For a long moment, both Peter and Mary Jane stayed exactly where they were, like they were frozen in a painting, or in a snow globe – one captured moment of time, Peter with his hand on Johnny’s chest and Mary Jane with her mouth hanging open, her aunt’s glass casserole dish a hair’s breadth away from slipping through her fingers.

Then Johnny’s laughter turned into coughing, his chest heaving, and the moment was broken. Peter turned away from Mary Jane, cursing softly under his breath as he grabbed at the tissue box that had rolled halfway under his bed.

This was the last thing he needed. He should have known May would have given Anna Watson a spare key in case of emergencies, and that Anna Watson wouldn’t have given a second thought before handing it over to her ditzy niece.

“Peter,” Mary Jane said, the closest to speechless he’d ever seen her. “The Human Torch is in your bed.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, looking down at Johnny, then back up at Mary Jane. Johnny continued to snicker weakly, his coughing fit abiding. “I kind of noticed that one.”

Mary Jane crept closer, still goggling like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The tinfoil-covered casserole she left abandoned on the edge of Peter’s overcrowded desk. A distant, slightly hysterical part of his mind hoped it wasn’t tuna.

“Oh my God,” Mary Jane breathed.

“Hi,” Johnny said, reaching out a hand. He seemed to find the whole thing hysterical. Peter was rethinking the whole concept of the friendship thing again. “Johnny Storm. Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

“Did you really just say that?” Peter asked him.

“It was a genuine question, man, ‘cause right now I really can’t tell,” Johnny said, grinning dazedly up at him. Peter cupped a hand to his forehead, an automatic imitation of his aunt, but it was pointless; he didn’t know what a normal temperature was for Johnny. He wasn’t hot at all – Peter didn’t know if that was a thing to worry about. He definitely looked feverish.

Peter glanced up at Mary Jane, still boggling at him, and then back down at Johnny.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he told Johnny, getting up and snagging Mary Jane by the arm, reeling her back. She didn’t put up a fight, a fact he was contributing solely to the Human Torch in his bed.

The bathroom door clicked and then MJ whirled on him, slapping at his shoulder. “Peter! The Human Torch is _in your bed_!”

“Yeah, I, uh, I noticed that,” he said. “MJ, come on, keep your voice down. The whole neighborhood doesn’t need to hear.”

Not that there was much chance of avoiding that fate, now that Mary Jane knew. She’d tell her aunt Anna, and Anna would be on the phone to the whole neighborhood, and soon every kid whose Bar Mitzvah Peter had ever been forced to attend would know. Not to mention May.

He fell back against the door with a thump and a groan.

“How do you know the Human Torch?” Mary Jane demanded, hands flung out and gesturing wildly. “I mean, besides intimately, apparently!”

“It’s not like that. I take pictures - I take pictures of Spider-Man, I sell ‘em to the Bugle,” Peter rambled. “He saw me, he saw the camera and – he wanted photos, MJ, alright? And we got kind of, you know – friendly.”

He leaned down as he waited for her to think it over, pulling open the cabinets to give his nervous hands something to do.

“Photos. That is some kind of luck,” she said, whistling. He almost couldn’t believe she’d bought it. “The _Human Torch_. Wow. I’m like, so in love with him. That smile—!”

She fanned herself, pretending to swoon back against the sink.

“You can’t tell anyone about this, Mary Jane,” Peter said, ransacking the bathroom cupboard.

“Beautiful celebrity superhero lying wounded in your tiny bed, needing a little tender love and care?” Mary Jane joked, though her eyes were still wide. “No worries, little old MJ can keep a secret.”

There were a lot of things Peter should have said in reply to that, but what came out of his mouth was, “Beautiful?”

Mary Jane’s laugh sounded a little hysterical, but maybe that was just how Peter’s buzzing nerves were processing everything.

“Tiger, he’s in your bed, so I know you’ve _seen_ him,” she fanned herself, rocking back her heels. “Woof. Talk about caliente. He is, pun fully intended, _so hot_. ”

Peter made a frustrated noise, one hand fisted in his hair. “Why don’t I have gauze? I should have gauze. I should have – I should be a person who owns a first aid kit.”

Instead, he was a person who could heal from bullet grazes by taking a really good nap. He let his forehead hit the cabinet with a thump.

“Uh, who has gauze?” Mary Jane asked, rolling her eyes. She thrust a hand in his face. “Look, just – give me twenty bucks, I’ll zip down to the drugstore and be right back with everything you need for a wounded hero in need of a little TLC.”

“I don’t know,” he said, even as he fumbled for his wallet.

“Peter,” she said, closing her hand over his for just a second. “I promised, right? Cross my heart and all that jazz.”

“Okay,” he said, breathing out, grateful, for once, for her and her easy way with words. “Thanks, MJ.”

She tucked the cash in her pocket and shoved at him. “I’ll be right back! Go sponge him down or something sexy like that, Florence Nightingale.”

“Florence Nightingale?” he repeated in disbelief.

Mary Jane paused, her hand on the door leading into the hall. Peter was about to ask what else she needed when she spun around and hugged him, throwing her arms around his neck. She was tall enough that she didn’t have to lean up.

“You know, this is such a relief,” she whispered in his ear, squeezing him tight. “All this time I thought you just didn’t like me.”

“What?” he said, flat, wondering what she meant.

Mary Jane sprang away as quickly as she’d latched onto him, throwing him a wink and a salute as she slipped through the door. Her footsteps echoed loud down the stairs and the front door slammed, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Peter took a moment to collect himself, breathing deep in his small bathroom.

When he opened the door back into his bedroom, Johnny was still there. So much for having hallucinated him. Peter stared at Johnny, who had struggled up on his elbows, and Johnny stared right back.

“I don’t see a sponge, Florence,” Johnny said at last, and Peter cracked up, banging the back of his head against the door.

“Oh, this is bad.” He snickered to himself – if he didn’t laugh, he’d cry – and thumbed the tinfoil off the casserole just enough to peek. Tuna, go figure. “You heard that?”

“Her voice carries,” Johnny muttered, pulling himself up a little more. “If that’s what your neighborhood pest looks like, I should move to Queens.”

“This is so bad,” Peter repeated, shaking his head. He moved back towards the bed, gravitating back towards Johnny. “Oh, this is so bad…”

He sank down to the ground, settling against the bed, and that was where he stayed for ten minutes, listening to Johnny breathe. He sounded better. Peter hoped he was better.

He hadn’t realized he was fidgeting until Johnny reached out and put a hand over his, stilling him.

“Hey,” he said, staring up at Peter with a quiet kind of intensity. Peter couldn’t have looked away if he’d tried. “You ever do science fairs?”

“What?” Peter said, confused.

“Science fairs,” Johnny repeated. “Like, in high school. My sister says – she thinks you’re smart. Something about math and how you swing? I don’t know because I was looking at your -- I was looking at you.”

“Your sister – the Invisible Woman thinks I’m smart?” Peter said. Johnny squeezed his wrist.

“Focus,” he said, grinning, slow and teasing. “My dad, that’s how he used to do recruiting. Go to science fairs, pick up the weird kids. I used to go with him before –” he seemed to cut himself off, biting at his lip and breaking their gaze. “So. You ever do science fairs?” He smiled again, just as dazzling as before. “You ever lie about doing science fairs?”

“No,” Peter said, transfixed by him, this burning boy lying in his bed. “No, I never –”

“Wonder what I would’ve thought, if I’d seen you at a science fair,” Johnny mumbled, still with that dreamy look on his face.

“What’s that nerd doing staring at me, probably,” Peter said before he had time to really consider the words.

Johnny laughed.

“Nah,” he said, staring up at Peter. “I don’t think so.”

The door front door slammed and Peter jolted, suddenly realizing that Johnny’s hand was still over his. He took his own hand away, breathing deep.

“I told her you saw me taking pictures of you, for the Bugle,” he said. “That’s our story.”

“Mine’s better,” Johnny said, eyes slipping shut.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Peter said, hand to his face. Johnny opened his eyes and stared up at him, confusion written all over his face. “Stay awake for me, okay, Torch? Just keep talking.”

“I’m think I’m okay,” Johnny said. “I’m just really tired. Exploding is hard.”

“Yeah, who would’ve thought?” Peter asked, snorting.

The door opened, quieter this time, as Mary Jane slipped back into the room with a plastic bag dangling from her fingers.

“Is he --?” she asked quietly, in a way Peter hadn’t known Mary Jane could be quiet.

“He’s fine,” Peter told her. Johnny waved a lazy hand in the air, and just like that, the switch flipped, and Mary Jane, Forest Hill’s original party girl, was back in the picture. She canted her hip to the side and tossed her hair as she held out the Duane Reade bag.

“He definitely is,” she said. “Here, nothing but the best twenty dollars could buy.”

“Thanks, Mary Jane,” Peter said. He shot her a long look, then glanced down at Johnny, trusting her to misinterpret the look on his face as something else entirely. Her lips twitched as she tried not to grin.

“Okay!” she said. “Well, it’s curfew for all good girls and tigers! I’d better be getting back to tell Aunt Anna all about how much you love her tuna casserole.”

“ _Thanks_ , Mary Jane,” Peter repeated, his tone flat.

“And don’t worry,” she added with a wink. “Discretion is Mary Jane’s middle name. Nice to meet you, Johnny Storm!”

The door slammed shut so hard it rattled on its hinges. Peter cringed.

“Is she like that all the time?” Johnny asked, grinning as Mary Jane’s footsteps pounded down the stairs. The front door opened and closed, equally loud, doubtlessly Mary Jane’s way of letting him know he was alone with his wounded celebrity superhero at last.

Someone, Peter thought, had got to get that girl a book that didn’t feature Fabio on the cover.

“For as long as I’ve known her?” Peter said, grimacing. “Worse.”

Johnny laughed, turning onto his side and smiling up at Peter.

“I don’t know, man,” he said. “I think I kind of like her.”

Peter leaned his arm on top of his bed and rested his head on it, until his gaze was parallel with Johnny’s. Johnny stared back, his gaze soft, and Peter had the idea to do something stupid, like climb up on the bed with him to soak up all his warmth.

With a sigh, he pulled away. He got a glass of water from the bathroom tap and handed it and a couple of painkillers to Johnny, who struggled up on his elbow in order to swallow them down.

“I should call your team,” Peter said. He rummaged through the bag, breaking open the first aid kit’s flimsy plastic. “Get someone to come pick you up, check you out. Make sure you’re alright.”

“You okay with them knowing where you live?” Johnny asked. He sounded like he already knew the answer. Still, Peter hesitated, unsure himself what he really wanted to say.

“You’re hurt and exhausted,” he finally settled on. “We can make something up. They -- they don’t have to know who I am.”

Johnny laughed, not like anything was funny, and raised a hand to swipe across his eyes. His hand fumbled for Peter’s wrist, squeezing briefly, before he pushed himself fully into a sitting position.

“No,” he said. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’ll call an Uber or something, don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah?” Peter said, frowning. He didn’t like the idea, and he didn’t know why. Maybe he just didn’t like the thought of standing on his steps with his hands tucked in his pockets, watching Johnny drive away in someone else’s car.

It had started to rain. Not hard, the way it had at George Stacy’s funeral, but the beat of the raindrops against the roof was enough to remind him of that day.

Peter fumbled for an antiseptic wipe, tearing open the packet.

“Or I could swing you over,” he said. He thought Johnny would like that, having been a fan of his – a chance to experience webslinging. He didn’t think too hard about how close he’d have to hold Johnny to do it.

“All the way to midtown?” Johnny said, looking dubious. He was right; it was far, especially with a passenger. Peter bit the inside of his cheek and shrugged, nonchalant, as he dragged the wipe across the scrape on Johnny’s forehead, carefully cleaning the dried blood and grit away.

“Then stay here,” Peter said, speaking before the thought was even fully formed in his head. “My aunt’s out of town. You can go home in the morning.”

Johnny’s eyes searched his face, though what he was looking for, Peter didn’t know.

“You sure?” he said.

Peter realized how close together their faces were, and how warm Johnny’s skin was under his fingertips. Part of him wanted to turn his hand over, and brush his knuckles across Johnny’s cheek. To press his thumb, tender, to the corner of Johnny’s mouth. He pulled his hand back and turned away from the bed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course I’m sure. You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Oh,” Johnny said. “Yeah, of course. Sure.”

If he sounded disappointed, then it was probably just Peter’s imagination. If Peter felt disappointed, then – he didn’t know.

It had been a very long time, since anyone besides him had slept in his bed. He tried not think too hard about that, either.

“So,” Peter said, clearing his throat. He picked up one of his webshooters from the desk, just to have something to do with his hands. “Yeah. It’s fine. Just stay here tonight.”

There was a pause, and then Johnny said, “Okay.”

Peter felt his shoulders relax. He hadn’t realized until that moment that they’d been tight.

“Okay,” he returned. “Good.”

It wasn’t very late, but Johnny was clearly exhausted. They talked a little more, but after a little while Johnny was yawning more than he was getting words out. It was fine. What he’d done tonight – Peter couldn’t even imagine it.

Part of him wanted to see it for himself. Another part of him hoped he never did.

By the time he’d fetched the spare blankets from the hall closet and laid them down on the floor by his bed, Johnny’s eyes were already shut. Peter hesitated by the light switch for a long moment, just looking at him. Then he turned out the lights.

“Night, Johnny,” he murmured, not really expecting an answer as he settled down in his makeshift sleeping bag.

“Good night, Spider-Man,” Johnny said, voice thick with sleep.

He lay there in the dark for a long time, listening first as Johnny shifted and settled, and then as his breathing grew deep and easy. Peter could make out the shape of him in his bed, lying on his side and settled under Peter’s faded threadbare old comforter, his head on Peter’s pillow. Peter could just barely make out his face, and how peaceful it looked, his eyes shut and his lips gently parted in sleep.

His breathing was soft and soothing. Peter thought that maybe it could lull him to sleep, too, if he relaxed and closed his eyes and surrendered.

But he couldn’t.

He changed into his costume as quietly as he could. The webshooters he grabbed from the desk, and with one last glance at Johnny, he opened the window wide enough to slip through and was gone out into the night.

He was back before dawn, but Johnny was already gone. Disappointment flared in him, restless, and he tried to swallow it down. He’d just expected that Johnny would still be there when he got back. He’d been looking forward to it.

There was a note left on his pillow -- _thanks_ and a tiny little drawing of a flame. The disappointment faded a little as Peter picked it up. He felt himself start to smile instead.

Carefully, Peter smoothed it out, and taped it to his wall, right over 42nd and Madison on his map, right over the Baxter Building.


	5. Chapter Four

“Your cousins missed you.”

“Did they say that?” Peter asked, rummaging around in the fridge. “With words?”

“Kathleen sends her love,” May said.

“Yeah, I bet she does,” he snorted. He put the juice back, turning to grab May’s suitcase out of her hand and set it aside. “Come on, give me that already.”

“Did you do anything interesting while I was away?” May asked, her voice too light.

“Nothing much,” Peter said, tucking his hands in his pockets. He’d just had the Human Torch in his bed, that was all. “Homework, late night TV, you now, the usual.”

May touched the bruise beneath his eye.

“Peter,” she said, voice as gentle as her touch. He covered her hand with his own for a second before guiding it away.

“I’m alright,” he said. “I’m just – perils of the job. I sold a couple of good photos to the Bugle.”

He had sold Jameson a handful of photos of Spider-Man, so it wasn’t exactly like it was a lie, though of course he hadn’t gotten the bruises from behind the camera. He’d just felt punchy after Johnny left. A couple of scuffles suddenly seemed like something he couldn’t pass up.

He still hadn’t found Mysterio, or anything that seemed Mysterio-related.

May frowned. “Good enough to justify my nephew’s face looking like that?”

“Good enough to have the extra cash to take you out to dinner,” Peter said, grinning at her. She was going to let him deflect, he could see it on her face. They’d go out to her favorite Italian spot, the one with the pretty tablecloths that Uncle Ben had never liked, and she’d tell him all about what every member of the Reilly clan was up to, and he’d crack just the right amount of smart remarks to make her laugh, and then they’d walk home together. He could see the entire night unfolding, a picture perfect snapshot.

At least until he got home and put on the costume, swung out the window while she was getting ready for bed.

But he’d pretend. For an hour or two, he’d pretend.

“Come on,” he said, letting the guilt carry him along in a familiar dance. “Lucatelli’s? My treat.”

She pursed her lips.

“Alright,” she said. “Let me just get my purse.”

* * *

Christmas passed uneventfully, for the most part. He and May did their usual Chinese food and a movie, her pick – “Honestly, I don’t care, I’ll watch whatever,” he’d said over fried rice and dumplings, laughing a little as she dithered over whether to see a romantic comedy or an action movie, her glasses perched at the end of her nose – and then after they’d said good night, he put on his spandex suit and shimmied out of the window to go spread some holiday spirit to criminals who didn’t believe in peace and good will to men.

Like he said: uneventful.

Until he glanced the burning message in the sky, anyway.

_SPIDER-MAN, MEET ME AT THE STATUE OF LIBERTY._

“He wants me to meet him _where now_?” Peter said, dropping his swing and attaching himself to the side of a nearby building. He squinted at the letters, but they didn’t change. In fact, Johnny – that moving spark in the air like a faraway firefly _had_ to be Johnny – added a little spider at the end of it, two circles for the head and the body and eight little curved legs, as if Peter would somehow miss his name but catch the doodle.

The letters swayed and danced in the sky, beautiful where they were, so far above the skyline. It had only been a few months, but already Peter couldn’t imagine this city without the Fantastic Four. Without Johnny. Peter wanted to meet up with him, to see him. It had been a good day – really, truly good. He felt good. Seeing Johnny could only make him feel better.

But still, the Statue of Liberty? Was Johnny out of his mind? How was Peter supposed to get all the way out there?

“Son of a biscuit,” he sighed, tipping his head back.

He ended up catching a ride out on a traffic copter. The pilot’s niece had apparently almost been attacked walking home from work late at night – if Spider-Man hadn’t webbed the attacker to the pavement before he could lay a finger on her. Peter didn’t remember her, but then a lot of Spider-Man’s return had been a blur for him, a rush of motion and action, like playing catchup all at once.

Then the Fantastic Four had arrived, and shocked him back to himself. He felt himself start to smile under his mask.

“Hey, happy to be of service,” he told the guy, gesturing down at Liberty Island. “Anywhere’s fine.”

“You joinin’ the Fantastic Four, Spider-Man?” the pilot asked as Peter’s feet hit the ground.

“Nah,” Peter said, rolling his shoulders and his neck. “Personal business. Hey, you have a good holiday.”

The pilot actually saluted him as he left. Peter had to laugh.

It felt strange, to scale the Statue of Liberty. A little forbidden, but then Peter had always liked a broken rule or twelve. It was exhilarating, too, thinking – nobody but him could climb the Statue of Liberty this way. Smooth and sinuous, without leaving any marks at all. He remembered the way Connors had climbed the Oscorp building years ago, his prowess marked by jagged claw marks and broken glass. Sharp claws punched into the steel to make handholds. Peter was strong enough that he could climb like that if he wanted, no sharp claws necessary. But he didn’t have to. It was just like letting himself fall off the side of that building to test his new webshooters after he’d first built them – the thrill never faded, not really. Nobody could do what he did – not even Johnny, who could _fly_.

The words had long since disappeared. If Johnny had left, Peter was going to track him down and strangle him.

He was close enough to the crown now that he could shoot a webline and swing the rest of the way, and sure enough, when he reached the top, there was Johnny, sitting with his back to Peter and tossing a fireball from palm to palm.

He turned to face him as Peter landed and for one second the light of the fire caught on his profile, dazzling. Peter sucked in a breath.

Then Johnny extinguished the flame, climbing eagerly to his feet. Unlike Peter, he wasn’t wearing his uniform, but rather dark jeans and a blue wool coat Peter knew he didn’t really need. An equally unnecessary scarf was wrapped around his neck. He always made clothes look like they were made for him.

Probably, Peter reflected, because they were.

“You came!” Johnny said, big grin and everything. Before he knew what was happening, Peter was enveloped in a hug. Johnny smelled good, like roasted chestnuts and the sharp smell of an extinguished match, with some woodsy, doubtlessly expensive cologne lurking underneath his collar. His arms felt good, too. Warm. Then Johnny was pulling back, making Peter suddenly aware of the chill. “I didn’t know if you would. But you did. You’re here.”

He was still smiling at Peter. Peter cleared his throat awkwardly.

“You didn’t exactly make it easy,” Peter told him, though truth be told the spark of annoyance he’d felt over Johnny’s choice of location had long since faded. “I had to catch a ride out with a helicopter. You’re lucky I found one who liked me.”

Johnny’s face fell. That smile Peter didn’t hate anymore disappeared into a frown. He shifted, suddenly awkward, crossing his arms across his chest.

“I just thought – it was somewhere we could be alone,” Johnny said. “Really alone.”

Before Peter could open his mouth to point out that there were plenty of rooftops they could be alone on together that weren’t surrounded by water, Johnny added, “You know, like you could take off your mask, alone.”

Oh. Johnny had dragged him all the way out here because he wanted to hang out with Peter Parker, not Spider-Man.

It felt strange, to reach up and peel the mask off. Strange, but not bad. The winter air was chilly and refreshing against Peter’s face. He couldn’t regret it, though, not when Johnny’s face lit up the way it did, literal sparks in his eyes.

“Yes! Thank you. Hey, I got you something,” Johnny said, thrusting a lumpy wrapped package into Peter’s hands. The wrapping paper made Peter snort; it was bright red, and covered in spiderwebs.

“Where do you even find this stuff?” he asked, carefully sliding his finger under the tape and pulling the Spider-Man wrapping paper away. What he was left holding was an action figure; it was man-shaped transparent orange plastic, with two yellow eyes and a yellow dash for its mouth. The plastic at its shoulders and head spiked upwards, in the shape of flames. There was a slightly raised 4 symbol on its chest. It had articulated joints. “Uh.”

“It’s the prototype!” Johnny said, big excited grin on his face. “It’s a Human Torch action figure! The very first, but definitely not the last.”

Oh, Peter could see it now, kind of. If he tilted his head and squinted. It wasn’t the hunk of plastic’s fault it couldn’t quite measure up to Johnny in the flesh.

“Press the button on the hand,” Johnny urged, still grinning like he’d unearthed some eighth world wonder.

Peter did, and from within the action figure came Johnny’s voice: “Flame on!”

“We’re trying to sell that as my catchphrase,” Johnny said. “Isn’t that cool? They had me in to record it.”

“That’s – yeah, that’s cool,” Peter said, though in truth he was far more caught up in the look on Johnny’s face, his breathless excitement, than in the prototype action figure he held in his hand. “That’s great, Johnny.”

Johnny beamed like he thought so too, or like Peter’s approval meant the world to him, and thrust another package at Peter.

“Here,” he said, smile gone a little shy. “I got him a friend, too.”

More of the Spider-Man wrapping paper fell away, and underneath it was a Spider-Man figure. Peter laughed out loud, unable to help himself. He’d seen a few of them over the years, mostly in shops that targeted tourists, propped up next to snow globes with the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty inside them, in front of racks of I ♥ New York t-shirts. Sometimes he’d even see them clenched in the grubby fists of little kids wandering around Times Square with their parents. He’d never bought one. He’d never even looked too hard. Somehow, it had always felt like if he did, it would break the fragile web, the spell that held him together as Spider-Man. That part of it, it didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

But this was different. This was a gift. He wondered if Johnny had seen it on a shelf and bought it on a whim, or if he’d gone looking for one for Peter. Maybe it had been something he owned already. Peter’s throat was suddenly a little tight.

“Thanks, Johnny,” he said. “Honestly. This is great.”

He ran his gloved thumb over the action figure’s torso, rubbing at the tiny little spider there. When he felt like he could swallow again he looked up to find Johnny staring at him, something soft in his gaze. He looked away when their eyes met.

“Yeah, well,” he said, hand to the back of his neck. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I do,” Peter said. “I like it a lot – I don’t have anything for you, though.”

Johnny shrugged.

“S’okay,” he said. “You showed up. That’s my present.”

Peter had no idea what to do with that, standing here at the Statue of Liberty with Johnny, all alone at the top of the world, holding Johnny’s gifts. Johnny looked at him again, and Peter felt warm when their eyes met.

“Kind of a lousy present,” Peter said.

“Not to me. Merry Christmas, Spider-Man,” Johnny said, and there was something low in his voice, something that _meant_ something, and Peter could feel it catch in his throat, spread through his veins.

“Thanks, man,” he replied, schooling his features into a frown. “But I’m Jewish, so…” He watched Johnny’s eyes widen and then he started laughing, throwing his head back with it. “Kidding. I am Jewish, I mean, but kidding. It’s okay.”

“Jesus,” Johnny said, and then shut his mouth with a click of teeth. “I meant -- You’re so –”

“Come on, man, I’m from Forest Hills, put two and two together,” Peter said, still laughing. He was tired of standing around, so he walked to the edge, sitting down between two of the crown’s spikes where he could dangle his legs over the side. After a moment, he felt warmth on his side, and Johnny joined him. He was close enough that their arms brushed.

“Merry Christmas, Johnny,” he said, bumping Johnny’s shoulder with his own. For a while after that, they just sat there, watching the distant lights, their arms pressed together. The chill couldn’t bother Johnny, and Peter found it didn’t bother him much, either.

Every once and a while, Johnny would say something – some anecdote about his week, or something that the Thing had said – and Peter would hum in reply, or point out a building that had a Spider-Man story associated with it. Johnny loved those, and Peter had a million of them. But for the most part, they sat in companionable silence.

There was a strange lightness in Peter’s chest, and it took him a moment to figure out what it was. He was happy.

Hours later, he climbed in through his bedroom window, still feeling it. His room was just the way he left it – the comforter rumpled and half on the floor, the stack of school books threatening to topple over, the maps and records on his wall – and he felt like he shouldn’t have felt different than when he’d left earlier that night, but he did.

The picture of him and Gwen in her bed still sat on his desk, his lips pressed to the crown of her head. He picked it up, his thumb rubbing over the frame, staring down at her face. He remembered Christmas dinner at her family’s apartment, the huge tree, and her, with a ribbon in her hair, in a sweater with a reindeer on it. There wasn’t mistletoe, but he’d kissed her anyway.

The year after that, she’d called him and told him to meet her at the Union Square holiday market. Her eyes had been electric and her cheeks pink as she told him she thought it was time that they tried to be friends.

He put the picture back down on the desk.

He wondered what Gwen would think of Johnny. Whether she’d like him. He thought she would. She’d always had friends, people from school and work. Always been outgoing. And Johnny was warm, and funny, and he was good at making people happy.

He made Peter happy. Few people ever had, and fewer still these days.

Peter put the two action figures down on his desk, next to the photo, where he could see them from his bed as he lay down to sleep.

* * *

“What’re you doing for New Year’s?” Johnny asked, chucking a can of soda at Peter’s head. He snatched it out of the air, opening it. Johnny laughed, singing under his breath, “New Year’s Eve…”

“Oh, the usual,” Peter said. He hummed the next bit of the song under his breath. “Swing around, fight some crime – watch out! There goes the Spider-Man.”

He danced his fingers, spider-y, in front of Johnny’s face, grinning.

They hadn’t mentioned Christmas night at the Statue of Liberty. If the two action figures hadn’t been sitting on Peter’s desk, where he could see them every night before he went to bed and when he got up in the morning, Peter would have doubted it had even happened. It felt a little like a dream; they’d met up for lunch the next day like nothing had happened. Peter wouldn’t have changed it, though. It was nice, this silent thing between them, the way they couldn’t seem to stay away from each other. First Christmas, now lunch up on the rooftop of the Flatiron. It felt perfect.

He’d missed this, the constant presence of someone in his life, having someone to talk to, someone who understood.

“You’re, what,” Johnny said, raising his eyebrows. “You’re spending it in costume?”

“A million gullible tourists in the city – yeah, I figure they could use a friendly neighborhood eye on them,” Peter said, shrugging.

“Come on! Time’s Square has a ton of security, they don’t need you,” Johnny said. “We’re young, we’re handsome – we deserve to have a good night.”

“What’s this _we_ stuff about, huh?” Peter asked, but he was laughing. The way Johnny so casually tossed out ‘we’ – _“we should see this movie this weekend, come on, I’ll buy the popcorn,”_ and _“did you see that? We were awesome!”_ – made something warm bloom in his chest. He had to drop his gaze, rolling up his mask to drink.

When he looked up, he found Johnny actually pouting at him. As if Peter didn’t have enough problems staring at his mouth.

“If,” he said. Johnny started to smile just at that first word. Peter held up a warning finger. “And I mean _if_ we did something – Johnny, what would we even do? What, put on our own fireworks show starring the Human Firefly, twenty bucks a pop?”

Johnny socked him in the shoulder. Peter pretended that it had hurt, rubbing at it and tipping his masked head Johnny’s way.

“Alright,” he said. “What’s your brilliant plan, then?”

Johnny grinned at him.

“What we need,” he said, “is a party.”

“No,” Peter said. “Absolutely not.”

“Yes!” Johnny said, clearly delighted with the idea. Peter wondered if he could end the conversation by flinging himself off the building and swinging very quickly away. He hadn’t started on his burger, though, and he hated to eat and swing.

“Do you know anyone throwing a party?” Peter asked. “Be honest with me here.”

“I,” Johnny said, pausing for dramatic effect, “am a celebrity.”

“So,” Peter said, with a similar mocking little pause. “That would be a ‘no’, huh?”

“Come on, man!” Johnny said, snorting. “I’m the _Human Torch_ of the _Fantastic freaking Four_. Do you think there’s any party in this town I couldn’t get into if I wanted? Taylor Swift is crying her eyes out that I turned down her New Year’s bash, man. She’s gonna write a song about it on her next album. And don’t get me started on the Kardashians and shit --”

“Please, stop,” Peter said, laughing, as he held up a hand. He let it drop and glanced away. “Anything but that.” He took a bite of his burger and chewed it slowly, letting the images play out in his head: Johnny in some fancy suit, surrounded by all the other beautiful people. Talking, laughing. Someone’s hand on his arm, lingering. He frowned. “So why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I – what?” Johnny asked, stealing a handful of Peter’s fries and tossing them gracelessly into his mouth.

“Going to one of those,” Peter asked, turning to look at him.

“Is there any chance in hell I could get you to go to some star-studded celebrity bash?” Johnny asked him, leaning in close, close enough to feel the heat of him, cutting through the December chill.

 _Johnny Storm, personal space heater – never leave home without him_ , Peter thought.

“Honestly?” he said, twisting his mouth to the side in an attempt to hide his smile at the idea. “No.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, laughing. “That’s what I thought. So. I’d rather go somewhere with you.”

Then he stole more of Peter’s fries.

“Oh,” Peter said, despite all of his efforts unable to stop the grin from breaking over his face. “Oh. Okay.” He let himself have it for a second, the idea that Johnny had picked him above all the famous people who doubtlessly wanted to show him off – the Human Torch, the superhero in their midst. And Johnny wanted to be with Peter instead. “I’m still not going to a party, though.”

Johnny hummed, noncommittal. Peter stole some of his fries back to even the score.

After lunch, they raced for a bit, just for fun, scattering pigeons in their wake. When that grew boring and no convenient criminals made themselves known, they switched into street clothes and headed for Peter’s place.

Mary Jane was sitting on her aunt’s front steps, wrapped in a bright red coat and a humongous sparkly scarf. Her leather gloves lay abandoned besides her as her fingers flew across her phone screen, partially obscured by the tumble of her hair as she bent over it.

“Do _not_ ,” Peter said to Johnny, but it was too late. Johnny had already seen her.

“Hey, Mary Jane, right?” Johnny called out, waving. Peter groaned, already full of regrets. “You know any good New Year’s Eve parties?”

Mary Jane perked right up, abandoning her phone.

"Yeah!" she said, jogging down the front steps. "This girl I know is throwing one, sounds like it's going to be pretty wild. You guys in?"

"Yeah, I don't really do that," Peter said, giving her a halfway apologetic smile.

"Do what?" Johnny asked, reaching up to ruffle Peter's hair. Peter ducked out from under his hand, pointing one warning finger at him. "Have fun?"

Peter snorted. "It's not my strong suit, I don't know if you've noticed."

"New year, new leaf!" Johnny declared. To Mary Jane, he said, "We're in. You got his number? Text him the address. I'll make sure he's there. Never mind, you know what? I’ll give you mine."

"We've got that thing, remember?" Peter said, pitching his voice low as Johnny produced a pen and Mary Jane held out her hand. Johnny, obviously, was supposed to suddenly remember their nonexistent thing and allow Peter to weasel out of what sounded like a fun night.

Perhaps predictably, he was less than amenable.

Johnny slung his arm over Peter's shoulders. He whispered 'nice try' in his ear, and ignored all the less than subtle eyebrow contortions going on in his direction. He leaned so close their noses were almost touching and said, "You heard the lady. We're going."

"I'll get your number from your aunt, Peter! Start a groupchat!" Mary Jane said, hair flying behind her as she took her aunt's steps two at a time. "It's going to be the best! Just wait!"

"I have fun," Peter told Johnny as Anna Watson’s front door slammed shut.

"Sure you do," Johnny said. "Name a fun thing you did this week. No spandex. I'll wait."

Peter paused, keys dangling from his fingers.

Johnny grinned. “See? You need this.”

“I need this like a hole in the head,” Peter said, unlocking the door. “I hung out with _you_. That’s fun.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere. Maybe I need this,” Johnny said. He waited until they were safely inside to wrap his arms around Peter’s shoulders and jump on his back. Peter grunted, fumbling to hook his hands under Johnny’s thighs as Johnny wrapped his legs loosely around his waist. “I can’t remember the last time I went to a party.”

Peter could: it had been a birthday party for one of Gwen’s friends, but he couldn’t remember the girl’s name. He’d stayed glued to Gwen’s side all night, playing with the ends of her hair or palming her hip. _“You know you could talk to other people,”_ she’d said.

 _“Why would I ever wanna talk to anybody but you?”_ he’d replied, just to watch her roll her eyes and smile.

He dumped Johnny unceremoniously on the kitchen table, twisting to look in the fridge.

“What’s in it for me?” he asked.

Johnny hummed in consideration. “I’ll… be your best friend?”

“I’ll pass,” Peter said, fighting a grin. He grabbed a plate of leftover meatloaf, holding it out for Johnny to take. “Heat this up for us, huh?”

“Do I look like a microwave?” Johnny demanded, but he took the plate anyway. “Come with me or the meatloaf gets burned.”

Peter sighed, feigning longsuffering when in truth it was a real fight not to smile. He tingled all down his back where Johnny had been pressed against him. It wasn’t like he’d had other plans, anyway, besides heckling some tourists.

“Okay,” he said, and Johnny’s grin lit him up inside a little bit. Just a spark, somewhere behind his ribs, somewhere it had been a long since he felt anything at all. “But I’m only doing this for the meatloaf.”

* * *

"So, question," Johnny asked, leaning into whisper-yell in Peter's ear. The music was loud and the crowd had left them pushed up close against each other. Johnny couldn’t help but take advantage a little, especially when Peter shivered and pressed back, his hand seeming to drift automatically against Johnny’s lower back, carrying them both through the crowd. "Does that girl actually know everyone in New York?"

Up ahead Mary Jane was holding court the middle of a group of attractive twenty-somethings, tossing her red curls as everyone around her burst into laughter. Her short dress was covered in hundreds of little mirrored discs, and she shone like a disco ball, casting light all around her. She’d been purposefully vague about how she knew the owners of the chic penthouse apartment, and then ditched them almost as soon as they’d made it through the door, flitting from one group to another.

"I don't know, but it looks like it," Peter said.

He looked good – he always looked good – but there was something about him tonight that made Johnny want to say things he probably shouldn’t. Maybe it was the way the shirt he was wearing was so tight around his biceps. Maybe it was the way they had to tilt their heads very close together to speak. “Why did I agree to this again?”

“Because it’s about to be a new year,” Johnny said. “New year, new you – and the new you actually has fun.”

Peter looked profoundly doubtful. Johnny wanted to kiss the line between his eyebrows. It was crowded in the apartment; maybe he could do it and pretend he’d be shoved by someone and that was how he accidentally ended up with his lips on Spider-Man’s face.

Or maybe he could just go jump off the roof right now. Either or.

Before he could think about it too much, the music changed. The sound of clapping hands filled the air – _”Hold it, hold it! Listen!”_ \-- and Johnny lit up. Figuratively.

“Come on!” he said, grabbing Peter’s hands. He thought it was probably the surprise talking when Peter actually let Johnny drag him into the middle of the room, where the furniture had been cleared out to make a dance floor. “This song – we have to dance to this song!”

“Wha --?” Peter just barely got out, but then The Temptations started singing, and so did Johnny.

“I!” he shouted above the music, practically bouncing on his toes. His dad had loved this song; they’d used to play it on a loop in the garage, back when Johnny had been young enough to need his dad’s help getting under the hood of a car. “Can turn a grey sky blue!” Lowering his voice, he continued to sing, “I can make it rain, whenever I want it to!”

“Oh yeah?” Peter asked, not laughing, but wearing that one smile that went straight to Johnny’s heart. “Since when?”

“Oh, I – I can build a castle, from a single grain of sand!” Johnny said, shimmying. On instinct, he curled his hands around Peter’s waist, pulling him in close. Peter went easily, the stiffness melting out of his shoulders as they fell into a rhythm together, as naturally as if they’d been dancing together for years. “I can make a ship sail, _uh_ , on dry land!”

“That’s very impressive,” Peter cut in, starting to snicker. His eyes were shining. Someone jostled into Johnny from behind and he barely felt it, too busy staring into Peter’s eyes. Suddenly this felt like much more than the simple dancing he’d planned.

“But my life is incomplete and I’m so blue,” he said, lowering his voice, no longer shouting to be heard above the beat of the music. “Because I can’t get next to you.”

For a second, he expected Peter to pull back. To shove him. To laugh it off like a bad joke. Not for Peter’s hands to curl at his hips.

“Could have fooled me,” he said. Sparks shot through Johnny and the music crashed in on him all over again as someone turned up the volume. He could feel the beat through the soles of his shoes, curling warm like his flames inside him.

“I can’t get next to you, babe!” he sang, rocking them back and forth to the beat. Peter laughed out loud, his head thrown back, even though Johnny didn’t know if he could hear him singing along over the noise. “Can’t get next to you!”

“Okay, okay,” Peter said, shaking his head. He was still wearing that wild grin, shoulders loose, the way they were in the Spider-Man costume. His fingers flexed against Johnny’s waist. “You want to dance, Matchstick? Let’s dance.”

It wasn’t that he’d expected Spider-Man to be a really bad dancer. Johnny had seen how he moved. But that was all alone, up in the air – a dance just between him and New York City. But that was Spider-Man, and this was Peter. The difference between them was that Spider-Man was larger than life, and Peter was a Jewish boy from Queens, and the kind of dancing Johnny had mind wasn’t exactly the macarena.

Peter, though – if Johnny hadn’t already known he was Spider-Man, he thought this dance would have been enough to make him suspect. Every move Johnny made, Peter met him, perfectly in sync. He laughed, too – wild, real laughter, his head thrown back and his eyes screwed up.

He’d thought he’d seen Peter happy before, but this was something different.

The song ended too quickly. Just like that, they broke apart, Peter’s hands leaving Johnny’s body as he stepped back, away from Johnny.

“That was,” Peter said, cutting himself off. He turned his head away, licking his lips. It took him a second to continue. “Do you always dance like that?”

 _When I’ve got a guy like you to dance with,_ Johnny wanted to say. _Did you like it?_ Johnny wanted to ask. He wanted the song to play over again and again and again, so they could keep dancing, and so he didn’t have to guess what Peter was thinking.

But the song changed, melting into something by Mariah Carey, and just like that, the moment was over and Johnny had lost his nerve.

“It’s too crowded in here. I can barely hear you. Come on,” Johnny said. “Let’s go up to the roof – I want some air.”

In reality it was Peter who seemed like he needed the fresh air, but Johnny was pretty sure if he said that Peter would just dig his heels into the carpet and force himself to stay exactly where he was. As it was, he looked like he was halfway to swinging out the window, secret identity be damned. He reached out and took Peter’s hand in his. He waited for Peter to pull away, but he didn’t so, heart in his throat, Johnny used their joined hands to tug him out of the apartment and up the stairs.

The night air was refreshing on his face. Johnny missed the chill of it: the slap in the face you got from stepping out into the cold air after being in an overpacked room. But he hadn’t felt cold since the accident, and tonight was no different.

The rooftop was deserted and they were alone. Johnny felt it acutely after the pressure of a hundred different bodies worth of heat – the whole world narrowed down to just him and Peter, like they were the only two people who existed in the whole city.

“Look at that,” Peter said, big grin on his face despite the pink in his cheeks and the white curl of his breath. He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, staring out at the city. “That’s beautiful.”

It was. Johnny leaned out over the rooftop’s low wall, way down at the street below, the cars speeding by, the people on the sidewalk. He could hear laughter if he closed his eyes, and someone shouting _”Happy New Year!”_ at the top of their lungs. He breathed in deep and felt himself start to smile. New York City, on New Year’s Eve, up on a rooftop with a gorgeous guy. Johnny was home.

“Hey, turn around for a sec.”

When Johnny looked up, Peter had his camera held up.

“Why do you bring that thing everywhere?” he asked, teasing.

“Never know when I’m going to get the perfect shot, right?” Peter said, shrugging.

Johnny sighed, rolling his eyes, and obligingly made to move out of the way.

Peter lowered the camera enough to glower at him. “What are you doing?”

“Getting out of the way,” Johnny said, gesturing to the city skyline, all those lights. “Letting you get your perfect shot.”

Peter squinted at him. “Johnny. You’re kidding me, right? You were my shot.”

“What?” Johnny said, needing a second to process – to make sure he had heard Peter right. “You were – of me?”

Peter grinned at him from behind the camera, a little bashful. “Come on, back where you were. Yeah, that’s great. Light up for me a little? Just – the hands, maybe, yeah.”

Johnny did as he asked, little points of fire springing up from his fingers, hands held open in front of him. He tried to school his features into a serious expression – the kind Peter seemed to favor in his other photos – but one look at Peter made him break into an uncontrollable grin.

Peter laughed. “Yeah, perfect, just like that. You’re great, you’re – you’re beautiful.”

Just for one second, Johnny’s flames flickered higher. Peter laughed, delighted and wild, and it hit Johnny all over again: this was Spider-Man. This totally impossible guy was real and alive and just as amazing under the mask, and he was up on a roof taking photos of Johnny like there was nothing else in the world he’d rather be doing. And he’d called Johnny beautiful.

“Hey,” he said. “Put the camera down for a second.”

Peter got in one last shot, probably just to be contrary. Johnny tried to put some saunter into his walk as he approached him. He touched Peter on the neck.

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he said, and then he tilted his head and kissed him.

It was just a quick thing, just the briefest brush of their lips. Johnny was so scared Peter would push him away.

“No,” Peter said, shaking his head. Johnny’s heart sank. Then Peter was grabbing him by the hips, pulling him in closer. “No, you’re not reading this wrong.”

The press of Peter's mouth against his was hard - Peter kissed Johnny like he needed him, like it was only the two of them in the world. Johnny wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, heart beating wildly against his ribs, and Peter made a noise deep in his throat.

The last time a guy had kissed him like that, it had been Victor, fumbling with Johnny in a supply closet. Johnny still remembered the scrape of his stubble, the possessive grasp of his hands. The way they'd both frozen when heavy footsteps had sounded just outside the door.

But Victor had dropped his eyes to Johnny's mouth and said, voice rough, "Don't tell Susan," and humiliation had curled in the pit of Johnny's stomach. Of course - one more person who wanted Sue, but settled for him. Somehow it had hurt more when it was weird, wryly funny, brooding Victor.

That he'd ever thought of Victor like that - funny, handsome, someone to _want_ \- made Johnny feel sick. He slid his hands up Peter's hard chest, tugging a little at his shirt.

Peter broke away with a little questioning noise, his Bambi eyes huge in the gloom. Johnny had to suck in a breath through his teeth, had to close his eyes so he wasn't looking at him. He tugged at his shirt again, and Peter's long fingers curled reassuringly around his wrists.

"I just need a sec," Johnny said. "That okay?"

"Yeah," Peter said softly. Johnny opened his eyes in time to see his tongue dart out across his bottom lip. "Yeah, of course. Whatever you need."

If Johnny needed anything, it was this guy. This weird, lanky guy who made him laugh, and who swung around the city trying to help people, and who meant it when he said things like _whatever you need_.

"You're kind of stupidly amazing, you know that?" Johnny said, putting his head down against Peter's shoulder.

"The amazing Spider-Man," Peter said, tilting his head Johnny's way, cheek pressed against the top of his head. "That's me. You want to go home?"

“Only if you’re coming with me,” Johnny said. “That okay?”

“Oh, hot stuff,” Peter groaned, hands squeezing at Johnny’s waist. “That is so much more than okay.”

Johnny kissed him again, hungry for it – the press of Peter’s lips against his, the slide of his tongue, the easy strength he displayed when he pinned Johnny back against the rooftop door. Johnny had previously been under the impression the shivers he’d gotten watching Ben lift whole tons were made of pure envy, but now he wasn’t so sure. There was something so heady about the way Peter could move him around like he weighed nothing.

“Huh,” he mumbled when they came up for air. “Learn something new about yourself every day.”

“What?” Peter asked, laughing a little. “What’re you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Johnny told him. He felt like he was filled to the brim with sunlight, even in the middle of the night; he couldn’t stop smiling. He knocked his forehead playfully against Peter’s, arms wound around Peter’s wiry shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go tell MJ we’re ditching.”

Like that was the cue, the sky lit up, all fireworks.

* * *

“My place?” Johnny asked when they were out on the street, breathing in the cold air, listening to the loud thump of the music and the loud cheers of the people. For once, New Year’s Eve felt like a celebration to Peter.

He reveled in it, the energy, the joy, and turned his face to kiss Johnny once more, quick this time, just the smack of his lips against Johnny’s.

“What, and sneak past your sister and the big guy?” he said. “Nah, let’s go to mine.”

Johnny frowned. “What about your aunt?”

“She’s over at Anna Watson’s, next door,” Peter said, snickering. “I’m quote-unquote “not fun” on New Year’s Eve.”

He had been, once upon a time, back when Uncle Ben had still been alive, camping out on the living room floor to watch the countdown and the confetti. Or at least he’d been as fun as he ever got, barring the one year he’d spent with Gwen, perched at the top of the Empire State Building. She’d been safe in his arms, or so he’d thought, and incandescent in the moment, her arms raised above her head and a pair of stolen New Year’s glasses perched on the edge of her nose. Peter had snagged them for her off a European tourist when they’d swung through Times Square, people pointing and shouting.

She’d counted down with the Times Square footage streaming on his phone, shouting, “3… 2... 1… HAPPY NEW YEAR!” in his ear while he’d pretended to jerk back from the volume.

“She goes over to Anna’s, they drink schnapps, talk about how their niece and nephew are disappointments,” he joked, forcing the memory out of his head. He slid his hand to the back of Johnny’s neck. He didn’t want to think tonight. “The house is empty.”

“Empty, huh?” Johnny said, big grin on his face and heat in his eyes. “That what you think about me?”

“We go back to my room, I’ll show you what I think about you,” Peter said, the words leaving his mouth before he even really thought about them. He felt his face heat up and Johnny laughed, leaning his forehead against Peter’s.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “See? Just one party and already you’re having fun. Subway?”

Peter shook his head.

“Skyway,” he said, feeling daring. “I want to race you.”

Johnny’s eyes lit up – literally. Peter couldn’t help a wild laugh.

“Oh, _hell_ yes,” Johnny said.

Peter put one hand behind his back and flicked his wrist. With his free hand he pointed up ahead, at the tallest building on the block.

“Meet me up there in thirty seconds.”

“Thirty –” Johnny said, but before he could finish speaking Peter had already taken off, launching himself up into the air. He couldn’t seem to stop laughing as he fired off another webline and grabbed for his mask, folded up in his back pocket.

There was a rush of heat on his left side, a beautiful blur of flames as Johnny streaked ahead of him. It just made Peter laugh louder. Tonight, everything felt right. The whole city was suddenly as perfect as Johnny looked, all lit up like that.

“So it’s gonna be like that, huh?” he shouted after Johnny.

“If you’re gonna make it like that!” Johnny called back.

“Oh, I’m gonna make it like that!” Peter said. “First one back to my place gets to make the other do whatever he wants!”

The words left his mouth before he could really consider the implications, and he almost fumbled his swing. But fuck it; it was the start of a brand new year and he was literally on top of the world with the most beautiful guy he’d ever laid eyes on. Suddenly, Peter wanted everything.

One quick rooftop change, webs, two trains – one abandoned where they did nothing but kiss, Peter’s back against the door and Johnny’s hands fisted in his shirt -- and a quick scramble over Anna Watson’s roof later, he was flinging himself through his bedroom window, all too aware of the streak of fire in the sky that was fast closing in.

“Aw yeah!” Peter said, throwing his hands up in the air and laughing as Johnny pulled himself through the window. “And Spider-Man brings it home!”

“You had the home team advantage,” Johnny complained, collapsing down on Peter’s bed. “And I’m pretty sure you cheated somehow.”

Peter ripped off his mask and climbed on top of him, itching all over with the need to be closer, to kiss Johnny again. Johnny leaned up to meet him; his hands cradled Peter’s face gently, but the kiss was anything but that. Pure fireworks, bigger and brighter than the celebration still going in Times Square – that’s what kissing Johnny was like. Peter could have done it forever and a day.

“So, what do you want?” Johnny asked, lips brushing Peter’s.

“Guh?” Peter asked, chasing Johnny’s mouth. Johnny laughed, cupping the back of Peter’s head, his fingers sinking into Peter’s hair.

“For your prize,” Johnny said. “Loser has to do whatever the winner wants, remember? Well, winner? What do you want?”

Peter’s face was hot. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Johnny waited him out, kissing his way across Peter’s jaw to mouth at his neck.

“Uh,” he said. “I, um. You’re --”

“That’s really descriptive,” Johnny said, snickering. He glanced up, a flicker of a spark in his eyes. “You want me, right?”

Hearing that was as heady as the first moment after he’d leapt off a skyscraper. He was unable to speak for a split second, just nodding, reaching for Johnny.

“Yeah,” he said, mouth gone dry. “Yeah, man. Johnny. I want you.”

Johnny cupped Peter’s face between his hands and kissed him. It was slow and deep, and it lit Peter up deep inside, like he’d been touched by some of Johnny’s spark and now his blood was full of fire too. He felt like he was drowning, and the touch of Johnny’s lips was the only anchor he had.

“Wow,” he said when they broke apart, and Johnny laughed, and his laughter was like sparks, too, like the fireworks and confetti going on outside, but all for Peter.

“I wanted to kiss you at the Statue of Liberty,” Johnny said, his eyes blazing somewhere deep inside. “Christmas night, when I asked you to come and you did. I wanted to kiss you so badly.”

“So why didn’t you?” Peter asked, before he could stop himself.

“Because,” Johnny said, “I didn’t know whether you wanted me to.”

“I want you to,” Peter said, palming his cheek. “I want you to whenever you want to. Johnny, you’re so --”

Johnny cut him off with another kiss before Peter could say he was beautiful.

“You too,” he said, his voice rough as he kissed Peter again and again. “You too. So much.”

“As long as we agree,” Peter said, laughing a little as he fit his hands to Johnny’s waist.

For a few long moments, all they did was kiss, and for those minutes the world seemed still and peaceful. Even the loud music from the house behind May’s annual New Year’s Eve party – Peter had a mental countdown running on when the cops would show up -- seemed far away.

“Hey,” Johnny whispered in between kisses, his hands flexing at Peter’s shoulders. “Spidey. Let me up.”

Peter groaned and shook his head, so Johnny huffed and nodded.

“Come on,” he coaxed, grinning that grin that gave Peter butterflies. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Peter swallowed hard, and slowly, slowly, eased his grip up.

Johnny rolled over so he was on top, straddling Peter’s lap. Peter couldn’t help his low groan as the bulge in Johnny’s jeans rubbed against his own cock, separated by suddenly far too many layers. Sparks lit him up from the inside out, even as nerves gripped him.

Peter could talk big, but the truth was he’d only ever been with Gwen. He’d thought about boys. He’d thought about boys a lot. But then he had her, and then he’d lost her, and there’d been no one else since. Not until Johnny.

“So?” Johnny asked, grinding down against him. “What do you think?”

“That’s,” Peter sucked in a breath. His hands found their way to Johnny’s hips, holding him against him. “Good. I think that’s pretty good.”

“And you know what I think, man?” Johnny said, grinning down at him. “I think you _really_ like my mouth.”

“Yeah?” Peter asked, unable to help himself when he reached up and pressed his thumb to Johnny’s bottom lip. Johnny’s lips parted, tongue flicking out against the pad of Peter’s thumb. Peter shivered, and Johnny’s lips closed around his thumb, warm wet suction. He licked and sucked, eyes closed. Peter splayed his other fingers against Johnny’s face.

“Johnny,” he whispered.

“Just relax,” Johnny said. He started to strip off his own shirt, slowly revealing smooth dark skin and muscles that Peter wanted to lick and touch all over, his memory capturing a perfect snapshot of the moment when Johnny pulled his shirt off all the way. “And enjoy the _storm_.”

Peter couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing, which hadn’t been the goal if the look on Johnny’s face was anything to go by.

“Oh,” he gasped, trying to stop snickering. “Tell me the truth – has that line ever worked for you before?”

Johnny mumbled something unkind about Peter under his breath and, still snickering, Peter leaned up and wrapped a hand around the back of his neck.

“Come here,” he murmured, bringing Johnny’s forehead down against him. “Just come back here.”

Johnny’s hands found the seam of the top half of the costume with the skill and dexterity of someone who had stripped Peter out of the suit a dozen times before -- or maybe he’d just imagined doing it. Before Peter knew it was being drawn up over his head and unceremoniously tossed over the side of the bed, and then he was on his back again, with Johnny on top of him. He kissed Peter’s throat first, his lips traveling over his collarbone, and then down the center of his chest, right where the spider would’ve rested.

“Why are you making this so hard for me?” Peter asked, one hand over his eyes as he grinned up at the ceiling.

“Really?” Johnny asked, mouthing at his stomach. “You want to talk about making things hard?”

“Oh,” Peter barked a laugh, stomach jumping as Johnny sucked at a sensitive spot. “Oh, that was bad, that was so bad...”

“Yeah?” Johnny hummed against Peter’s skin. He dipped his tongue into Peter’s navel and cupped his groin; Peter felt hot all over, so hard in his spandex pants. “Guess I’ll have to be good, make it up to you.”

Peter groaned. Johnny laughed. He hooked his thumbs into Peter’s waistband, dragging it one teasing inch down, biting at Peter’s hipbone. He sucked a kiss to the spot, glancing up at Peter with sparks in his dark eyes.

Peter nodded.

His boots and pants joined the top half of his costume. Johnny’s breath ghosted hot across Peter’s cock, and Peter moaned his name when he kissed him through the fabric of his underwear, tracing the shape of his cock with his tongue. Johnny’s mouth was so hot. His fingers, too, where they dragged his underwear from his hips and down his thighs, freeing his cock to the cool air of his bedroom, at odds with Johnny’s heated touch.

The next thing he knew, that hot mouth was on him. He swore viciously at the ceiling as Johnny’s tongue laved over the head of his cock before he sucked him into his mouth, his hand curling around the base. Peter wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t, not when he could look at Johnny bobbing up and down on his cock, the sight of Johnny’s lips stretched around his dick almost as arresting at the sensation. Almost.

“Yeah,” he found himself saying. “Yeah, just like that. That’s amazing. You’re beautiful.”

Johnny stopped for a split second, pulling off Peter’s cock to glance up at him, that hot mouth hanging slightly open and something besides fire in his eyes. Peter, slightly dazed, was just about to ask what he’d done wrong when Johnny sank back down and redoubled his efforts, and then Peter couldn’t do anything but swear and call Johnny’s name.

The world narrowed to just the wet heat of Johnny’s mouth, the slide of his lips and his hand wrapped around the base of Peter’s dick, working him over. The sheets tore under Peter’s fingers and he didn’t even care.

“Johnny,” he ground out when he was close. “I’m gonna –”

Johnny pulled off, mouth wet and shiny, and said, “Do it,” before he took Peter back in that wet, hot mouth again and hollowed his cheeks.

When Peter came, he came hard, distantly thankful for the noise of the neighborhood when he groaned Johnny’s name, throwing his head back with a strangled noise as Johnny swallowed.

“Good?” Johnny asked, crawling up his body, grinning because he already knew the answer. Peter watched him run his tongue across his lips and swallowed hard.

“That was amazing,” he said, fitting his fingertips to Johnny’s face and tilting his heat. “It was spectacular…”

Johnny kissed him before he could say ‘sensational.’

He could taste himself in Johnny’s mouth as they kissed, and Peter could have stayed like that forever, loose limbed and buzzing with the hot, comforting weight of Johnny’s body over his own. But he could feel Johnny’s erection pressed against him, and he itched to do something about that. He splayed his hand across Johnny’s cheek and whispered, “Okay, your turn.”

“You don’t have to,” Johnny said, fidgeting, fingers skating down Peter’s chest. “I can take care of myself. It’s cool.”

“I want to,” Peter assured him. “But maybe, uh…”

“You hand?” Johnny said, swallowing. Peter traced the motion of his throat; he wanted to lick it.

“Yeah,” Peter said, moving forward, into Johnny’s space as Johnny leaned away. His body heat blazed; he was beautiful, here in Peter’s bed. _I can keep him here forever,_ he thought to himself, _and we can keep the heating bills way down._ “Yeah, if that’s okay –”

“I, uh,” Johnny broke off with a laugh. “Yeah. I really like your hands.”

“Oh, man,” Peter said, laughing too. He put his hand on Johnny’s thigh. “You can’t just like—”

“Just what?” Johnny asked, tilting his head up for a kiss. Peter obliged, tongues tangling together as he inched his hand up Johnny’s thigh.

“You can’t just say stuff like that,” Peter said against Johnny’s lips. “Just like –”

“Just like, what?” Johnny challenged. “Like it’s the truth? Like I haven’t been thinking about your hand on my dick?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, laughing as he brought Johnny in for another kiss. “Just like that. Okay, hot stuff, take it off for me.”

Johnny pulled away from him, climbing off the bed. He stood in the middle of Peter’s room – Peter’s small, overcrowded room, the same one he’d occupied since he was eight years old, books threatening to landslide and paraphernalia over every spare inch of wall – and started to strip off the rest of his clothes.

His belt went first, and then he was hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his tight jeans, and Peter’s mouth was dry. Johnny winked and, with an exaggerated shimmy of his hips, gone were his pants. He was left standing in his tight red briefs, and Peter could see the outline of his cock through them. His palms itched.

“All the way off, hot stuff,” he rasped.

Johnny shot him a hot look, sparks flashing deep in his eyes, and maybe Peter should have thought that was weird, but he was just transfixed by Johnny and the fire lurking under his skin as Johnny shed his briefs. He was gorgeous, naked. That was the only word Peter could think of. Gorgeous.

“Now come back here,” Peter said. With a smile, Johnny obliged. Their lips met, hungry, Peter’s fingertips splayed across Johnny’s cheek. His other hand fell to his shoulder, slipping down his arm, over the swell of his bicep, then back up, over his collarbone and down his chest.

It was different, touching Johnny. Different, but he liked it, the solid warmth of him, the life and fire that seemed to thrum under his skin. His hand slipped down Johnny’s firm stomach to curl, carefully, around his cock, and Johnny sighed into his mouth.

He was very aware of Johnny’s every little shift and sigh as they settled into a rhythm, shifting so Johnny back was pressed to Peter’s front. Peter’s other arm curled around his chest, holding Johnny against himself, his chin hooked over Johnny’s shoulder. He felt different; no gentle slope of waist to hip, no soft curve of Gwen’s breasts. Johnny felt _good_ , too, hard and hot and held close against him. Peter liked it, the hard, muscular planes of his body, his blazing warmth, the weight of his cock in his hand.

“Okay?” he breathed, almost afraid to speak in case it shattered the spell.

“Don’t stop,” Johnny said, his lips brushing Peter’s as he spoke. “Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, watching his own hand move over Johnny’s shaft. His earlier nerves were gone, chased away by the sounds Johnny made, the way he felt against him. He knew how to do this, touching Johnny the way he liked to be touched.

“And you’re really good at that,” Johnny said, breaking off with a little moan. Peter slipped his other hand down to Johnny’s hip, holding onto him with enough strength that he couldn’t buck up into his grip as he swirled his thumb over the head. “I can’t believe I’m getting jacked off by Spider-Man right now.”

“And I can’t believe I’m jerking off the Human Torch,” Peter said, voice rough. He played with his slit, gathering the wetness there. “Is that what you want to hear, Johnny?”

“I wanna hear your voice,” Johnny said. “I really, really like your voice.”

Peter’s lips brushed against the shell of Johnny’s ear. “So then I guess I should keep talking.”

He talked about Johnny – about how he looked in Peter’s bed, and how he felt under Peter’s hand, the sheer warmth of him bleeding into Peter, little by little, and chasing away the winter chill. But the truth was Peter had been cold for a very long time and now, with Johnny, he was starting to feel something else.

It felt strange. It felt good. Peter didn’t know if he deserved it, but he wanted to keep feeling it, to feed that fire until it was strong enough to consume him.

“Spidey,” Johnny gasped.

“That’s it, hot stuff,” Peter murmured. He let his teeth catch against Johnny’s ear, applying just a hint of pressure. “Just let go.”

One more tight stroke and Johnny came all over Peter’s hand. He tried to muffle his groan and Peter bit at his shoulder, then kissed the same spot, stroking him through it.

“Shh,” Peter soothed as Johnny panted. “I got you, I got you. Look at you.” He swallowed hard. “You’re gorgeous.”

They ended up stretched out on Peter’s bed after they cleaned up and stripped off the torn and ruined sheet. Johnny was on his side and Peter spooned up beside him, his hand on Johnny’s hip. His fingers drifted up and down, chasing the warmth of Johnny’s skin. He hadn’t let himself think about how much he missed holding someone.

“Stay here tonight,” Peter said, his throat tight. “Please. I want you to.”

“Only if you don’t sleep on the floor this time,” Johnny said, after a pause.

“Oh,” Peter said, pressing his face to Johnny’s shoulder, chest shaking with laughter. “Oh, happy new year to me.”


	6. Chapter Five

Peter woke up all tangled up with Johnny, Johnny’s head on his shoulder and Peter’s arm gone a little numb, his body angled towards Johnny’s. There wasn’t really enough room for them both in his bed, and it should have been uncomfortable – but mostly Peter just felt warm all over, and happy, and like waking Johnny up just so he could kiss him.

Sleeping next to Johnny felt great. He was like a human heating pad; all of Peter’s aches and bruises felt soothed. For the first time in a long time, Peter felt like melting back into the bed and telling the world just another hour or two. Maybe he’d earned it.

Like an answer from the universe, Johnny yawned and stretched. He patted sleepily at Peter’s chest, humming a little as he moved, somehow, impossibly, even closer.

“Good morning,” he said, his eyes still closed.

“Good morning,” Peter returned. Johnny’s voice stirred something in his chest and Peter had to -- _had_ to – press a kiss to the top of his head. Johnny laughed a little, soft and sleepy, and everything in Peter sang.

It felt like the perfect morning. And then Johnny woke all the way up. Peter felt him go stiff in his arms first, and then he was pulling away – not far, just enough to raise himself up enough to look down at Peter. His expression was unsure, and for one moment Peter thought he’d done something wrong – until he realized that Johnny wasn’t sure how Peter was going to react. Whether last night had been a mistake on his part.

He reached up to cup Johnny’s cheek.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Johnny said, voice rough. He looked a little hesitant.

“ _Hey_ ,” Peter said, grinning and pulling Johnny close against him. He put just enough spider strength in it to hold Johnny tight, but not enough that Johnny couldn’t have broken away if he wanted. Johnny relaxed against him. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, starting to smile. “You?”

“Yeah,” Peter echoed, pressing his lips to Johnny’s, close mouthed and almost chaste – unlike the hand he slid across Johnny’s hip, slipping down over his ass and squeezing. Johnny hummed. “I slept great. You’re warm.”

“You think?” Johnny said, just this side of sarcastic. He waggled his eyebrows and Peter laughed, overcome in the moment with feeling – with happiness. He wanted to trap the moment in a snow globe, or a polaroid photo. But that wasn’t how things worked.

“Let’s go downstairs,” Peter said softly. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Let’s go downstairs,” Johnny said, “and I’ll make _you_ breakfast. I’ve seen how you eat, man, I don’t trust you. But first – you want a shower?”

Sharing was definitely in the name of conserving water, and not at all because the small bathroom forced them to be practically on top of each other the whole time.

At one point he thought he heard a noise from downstairs, but his spider-sense remained silent, and all that mattered was the water around him and Johnny’s mouth on his, the hot hard press of his body. It especially didn’t matter when Johnny’s hand slipped down his stomach to circle his cock.

What was he supposed to do but push Johnny up against the shower wall and hold him there, their cocks sliding against each other, the steam of the shower curling around them. The water never went cold.

“Did you have something to do with that?” Peter asked as they finally, and reluctantly, put clothes back on.

Johnny grinned. “I’m pretty useful to have around, right?”

“More than,” Peter said, giving into desire and leaning in for another kiss. Johnny met him eagerly, and they spent another few minutes pressed up against the bathroom door before the desire for breakfast outweighed – or at least caught up with – the warm weight of Johnny’s body against his.

They were joking with each other, halfway down the stairs, before Peter recognized the sound of other voices coming from the living room.

Anna and Mary Jane Watson were sitting on the couch. New Year’s Day brunch – Peter had forgotten that while the party started at Anna’s, it always ended at May’s. He’d always slept through it, the past few years. He froze on the stairs and Johnny bumped into his back; only Peter’s spider-given balance kept them from both toppling over.

Mary Jane looked up, fresh-faced and bright-eyed despite the fact that when Peter and Johnny had slipped out of the party the night before she’d been hoisted onto the shoulders of two enormous, shirtless men, screaming out the lyrics to _Dancing Queen_.

She instantly caught sight of Johnny and whistled.

“Wow, Tiger,” she said. “Looks like you’re off to a great start this year.”

Anna Watson glanced over and dropped her cup.

The crash drew May from the kitchen. For a second, everyone just sat there, Anna with her shattered teacup at her feet, Mary Jane with her hand clapped over her mouth like she hadn’t meant to do that, Peter and Johnny on the stairs. May, in the doorway.

It was Mary Jane who leapt into action, jumping to her feet and falling into a low, sweeping bow in front of her aunt. The multi-colored bangles she wore on her wrist clattered together.

“Anna Watson, jewel of Queens and queen of bingo night, may I present to you,” she said, straightening up and sweeping her arm out in Peter and Johnny’s direction, “the one, the only, the Human Torch!” She grinned, dimples on full display. “And May Parker’s favorite nephew too, of course.”

She glanced over her shoulder, grin disappearing for one moment, to mouth, _might as well go with it._ They were busted anyway.

Peter stood frozen on the steps. Johnny didn’t move, either – not that he could, with Peter in the way, gripping the banister hard enough that he had to consciously ease up his grip so he didn’t break the wood.

“Mary Jane,” Anna Watson said, clearly taken aback. “You _know_ the Human Torch?”

“Naturally,” Mary Jane said, looking at Peter like she was waiting for him to get the hint. She didn’t break eye contact even as she flopped back onto the couch next to her aunt. “I _am_ Forest Hill’s premier budding socialite, aren’t I?”

She was still staring at him, daring him to do something. Aunt May was staring, too. Johnny was repeatedly jabbing his index finger into Peter’s lower back. He had to move. Since when had descending the stairs seemed more daunting than flinging himself off the Chrysler building?

He took a step, and then another, and then somehow he was in front of his aunt.

“Morning, Aunt May,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. She murmured “good morning” quietly, her gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder even as she touched his shoulder, pulling him in against her. She was staring, Peter knew, at Johnny, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d brought Johnny – a public figure, a superhero without a mask, and celebrity – into her house without her knowledge. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” she returned, still sounding a little bit dazed.

“I should, uh,” Johnny said, pointing to the door. Peter was just about to agree when Mary Jane cut in.

“No, don’t!” she said. “Come on, join us!”

And then she patted the spot right next to her on the sofa. Johnny looked at Peter, who couldn’t see any way out of the situation other than jumping through the window. Anna Watson was taking turns between staring at Johnny and Peter like someone had grown an extra head and then looking over at May with a clear _did you know about this_ expression on her face.

May was just staring at Peter. He could see the cogs working in her head. A knot formed in his stomach, undoing all his euphoric bliss of just moments ago. His mind reeled for some kind of explanation, some kind of excuse, why he was standing on the stairs with a superhero celebrity and one of the most beautiful men he’d ever laid eyes on, that wouldn’t give everything away.

Then Johnny sprang into action.

“Sorry, Mrs. Parker,” he said, leaning over to take her hand. “We didn’t know anyone was home. I’m Johnny Storm – it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” May repeated, looking a little dazed, until she snapped back to herself. “Please, sit down. I just have to check on something in the kitchen.”

With one last disbelieving look at Peter, she headed through the dining room.

“It’s going to be okay, I promise,” Johnny whispered to Peter, his mouth brushing against his ear, as he ambled over the couch. Peter wanted to believe him, but he would have rather rewound time and stayed upstairs, locked his bedroom door and kept them there, in their own private little world.

“I wondered where you two went to after the party last night,” Mary Jane said as Johnny sat down next to her; Peter ended up awkwardly perched on the arm of the sofa behind him. Mary Jane leaned over and added, “You couldn’t have found a hotel room?”

“Mary Jane,” Anna said, probably not as admonishingly as she meant to, her own gaze fixed on Johnny.

He leaned around Mary Jane to hold out his hand, wearing his biggest, brightest grin, the one that had once made Peter toss a People Magazine clear over Anna’s hedges and now made him want to do something impulsive, like shout from the rooftops or dip Johnny into a kiss.

“You must be MJ’s aunt,” he said. “I can see where she gets her looks from.”

He actually winked, and Anna Watson looked dangerously close to swooning.

"Peter?" May called from the other room. "Sweetheart, can you help me with the oven for a second?"

There was nothing wrong with the oven, and he knew May knew he knew that. Still, dutiful nephew that he was, he rose from the sofa.

"I'll be right back," Peter said, palming Johnny's shoulder. He couldn’t seem to stop touching him; even tearing himself away for a minute seemed like a Herculean effort.

Johnny grinned at him, easy in the morning light streaming through the window, and Peter's heart skipped a beat.

"It's cool,” he said, squeezing Peter’s wrist.

“Two seconds,” Peter promised, loathe to leave him at the mercy of the Watsons – loathe to leave him at all -- for even that long.

He walked into the kitchen and Aunt May slapped him on the arm with a tea towel, dragging by the sleeve into the corner.

"Peter," she said. "The Human Torch is in my living room."

Peter stole a glance over his shoulder. Johnny was still there, still almost annoyingly perfect, still looking like he somehow fit here, in Peter's home. He was leaning forward, talking to Mary Jane, probably charming the hell out of Anna Watson. "Yep."

“Why is the Human Torch in my living room!” May said, eyes wide.

“You know they can hear us out there, right?” Peter said. “The kitchen isn’t actually soundproof.”

“Peter,” May said in a warning tone.

“Alright, c’mon, outside,” he said, ushering her towards the kitchen door. “Outside, outside, I’ll talk, I promise.”

The air outside was brisk, but warmer than usual for January. Sometime during the night a dusting of snow had fallen, stretched out over the yard like the confetti from Times Square, and it was already starting to melt. Still, he brought his hands up to his aunt’s shoulders, rubbing warmth into her arms through her old woolen cardigan.

“Oh, stop that,” she said, pulling it tighter around her. She stared up into his face, confusion tinged with just a little suspicion all over hers. He’d seen that look before. “Peter – that _is_ the Human Torch, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, sniffing. He’d been out in worse weather in just his spandex, but usually in a full face mask. The cold tickled his nose. “I was, you know,” he mimed snapping a photo, “for the Bugle, and he saw me and – I don’t know. We hit it off. I was going to tell you.”

Just one more lie, no harder than all the others.

“Oh, Peter,” May said, touching his arm so gently. Peter could take a punch that would crush steel, but sometimes his aunt’s touch felt like it might break him. He looked away from her.

“He, y’know,” Peter said, hands tucked in his pockets. “He spent the night.”

“Sweetheart,” May said, eyes all wide. “Are you – are you _dating_ the Human Torch?”

“I, uh,” Peter said, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know. I think I might be.”

May nodded quietly to herself, wearing that one look that made Peter worry – the one where the wheels were turning in her head, where he was sure this time was going to be the light bulb moment, where all his secrets would be over.

“Are you being safe?” she said.

He almost burst out laughing.

“It’s not an unreasonable question!” she said.

“I need a second,” he said, sagging back against the wall, “just to process how ridiculous my life is, I’m sorry, Aunt May.”

“Peter,” May said, taking him by the shoulders. “Are you being safe, in all areas of your life?”

There was that look again. It sobered Peter instantly. He nodded, but he couldn’t quite look her in the eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you know me, May. I’m Mr. Safety.”

She was silent for a moment, letting that statement hang between them, another thread in the web of lies Peter had built. She reached up to touch his cheek and he covered her hand with his own, squeezing lightly.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know,” she returned.

“Are you… okay?” he said, trying carefully to pick a word that wouldn’t make either of them give away too much.

“I will be,” she said, closing her eyes as he leaned down to press his lips to the top of her head.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She sighed, and then she opened her eyes, leaning away from him.

“Okay, let’s go back inside. Don’t even know when the Human Torch is in my own home!” May said, bustling back through the door. “Land’s sakes, what goes on under this roof?”

Peter hesitated a moment, just breathing in the stillness of the winter air, and then he followed her back inside, where it was warm. Where he’d left Johnny at the mercy of the Watsons.

He shouldn’t have worried. Anna was so thoroughly charmed by Johnny by the time she and Mary Jane left in the afternoon that Peter was a little worried she’d try to take him with them, and Mary Jane never left room for anything as trivial as a moment of awkward silence.

“The bridge club cannot hear about this,” Peter told May in an undertone. “If the Post ends up on our lawn, we’ll have to move.”

“I’ll talk to her,” May said, looking over at where Anna, with her coat half on, was listening transfixed to some story Johnny was telling about the time the Fantastic Four had taken down a guy with a grudge and a souped up glue gun at a charity gala. Peter couldn’t entirely blame her.

“Chin up, tiger,” Mary Jane said, when she and Anna finally actually left. To emphasize her words, she chucked her knuckles under his chin. “It’s a good day.”

“If you say so,” he told her, and she beamed at him, rocking up suddenly on the toes of her red leather boots to kiss him on the cheek before she raced down the stairs to catch up with her aunt.

His own aunt had disappeared, putting away the rest of the food, and then it was just him and Johnny, standing together in the hall.

“I should probably go, too,” Johnny said, his hands shoved into his pockets. There was something a little unsure about his posture, and Peter wanted him to stay. He wasn’t ready for it to be over yet, this new closeness.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything – and that was when he heard Aunt May swearing, fierce and unexpected, from the basement.

“Hold that thought,” he told Johnny, heading for the kitchen. The door to the basement was open, and he could see the light on down below. “Aunt May? What’s the matter?”

“The basement’s flooded,” Aunt May said as she came bustling up the stairs, wiping her hands off on a dish towel. “I have to call a plumber –"

“You’ll never get one, not on New Year’s,” Peter said. Besides, he didn’t add, they couldn’t afford it, not this month. The end of the year always stretched the budget too thin. He brushed past her to peer down into the dark of the basement. “Don’t do that, come on. How bad is it?”

The damp floor in the basement brought back memories of standing with Uncle Ben, the day he’d found his father’s briefcase. It didn’t help that it quickly became apparent the problem was, once again, the ancient second freezer that stood along the back wall.

He was so struck by the memory that he almost didn’t hear Johnny coming up behind him. Johnny whistled, long and low, as Peter crossed his arms and rubbed at his chin.

“Sorry,” he said. “I need to take care of this. You can head out, it’s fine.”

“Yeah, right. Move over,” Johnny said. “Let me see.”

“What do you know about busted appliances, huh?” Peter teased.

“More than you,” Johnny said. “That’s my super power – I can fix anything.”

They fell into the work together naturally, not quite in sync, but not entirely out of either. Complementary, Peter thought. They worked well together. He liked it, watching Johnny so out of his element, his jeans rolled up and them both barefoot in Peter’s soaked basement. Peter wished he had his camera.

“Told you,” Johnny said at one point, elbowing him playfully. “Super power.”

“So I’ve just been imagining the light shows,” Peter joked. He shoved him back, not hard, but enough to remind Johnny who was the one winning the arm wrestling contests around here. Johnny laughed as he stumbled, and Peter used the momentum to grab him by the elbow and pull him in for a kiss.

“Quit it,” Johnny murmured after a minute, smiling as he planted a hand against Peter’s chest. “We’re supposed to be fixing this. For your _aunt_ , dude.”

“Don’t mention my aunt when I’m trying to kiss you,” Peter replied, angling his head and stealing another kiss.

“Don’t try to kiss me when I’m talking about your aunt,” Johnny countered and Peter, laughing, finally leaned away.

“Did it used to be like this?” he asked after a few long minutes working in companionable silence. He waved a hand around the crowded basement, stuffed full with old boxes, the work table in the back. He didn’t know how else to encompass the concept – homey. Lived in. “You know, back before…?”

“The accident?” Johnny said, stilted, after half a beat. He looked up at Peter.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “You know. Where you grew up.”

Johnny held his gaze for a moment, then looked away, clearing his throat. Peter abruptly felt like he’d said something wrong.

“It’s, uh,” he said, turning back to his work. “Stupid question.”

Johnny was quiet for another moment before he spoke. “You know, my dad used to say there was no such thing as stupid questions.”

Peter waited for the other half of the joke. When it didn’t come, he prompted, “Just stupid people?”

It was the version of the saying he’d heard Uncle Ben spout once or twice over the years, mostly while on hold with the phone company.

“Nah, my dad didn’t believe in those either,” Johnny said. Peter could see the corner of his mouth twitch, like he couldn’t decide whether to smile. “Well. Maybe the bureaucrats.”

“Everybody knows they don’t count,” Peter said, shoving his shoulder back into Johnny’s, relieved they were joking again. “Politicians either.”

Johnny smirked, wiping his hands off on a rag. He glanced around the room again, the exposed pipes in the ceiling and Uncle Ben’s old work desk, where Peter had built his webshooters. It felt like a lifetime ago when he’d sat there, taking apart an old watch, trying to work out the trigger mechanism so he didn’t get webbed in the face himself.

“Nah,” Johnny said. “It wasn’t like this. I was alone a lot. My dad, he was always busy. And my mom, she -- ” he coughed, cutting himself off. “And then when everyone discovered how smart Sue was… But, you know. I had the garage. My car. A lot of free time. It was fine.”

It didn’t sound fine. It sounded lonely. Peter knew something like the feeling -- or at least, he knew what it was like to feel alone.

“Hey,” he said, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and tipping his head towards him. His hand found Johnny’s, thumb rubbing over his knuckles. “S’okay. You got me, now.”

Johnny looked at him, dark eyes questioning. He flipped his hand over in Peter’s and slotted their fingers together, bringing them up.

“Do I?” he said.

“You got me,” Peter said, smiling. Slowly, Johnny began to smile back, some of the tension leeching out of his shoulders when Peter brought his hand up to massage the back of his neck, pressing their foreheads together. Peter closed his eyes and, for one moment, let himself just breathe. “You got me.”

He brushed his thumb against the nape of Johnny’s neck and then he leaned back and let go. He stood, cracking his neck, and gazed down at the freezer.

“Sorry for the terrible first date,” he joked, reaching down to pull Johnny to his feet.

“Please,” Johnny snorted, hooking his fingers into the collar of Peter’s shirt. He leaned in and smiled that smile, the big bright one that had been the first thing about to him to gets its hook into Peter. Peter was struck by him all over again, standing together in his basement with the damp concrete floor under their feet and the winter sunlight streaming in from the little window near the top of the stairs.

“What?” Peter asked him, reaching up to touch his face.

“Best first date,” Johnny said, kissing him. “Ever.”

* * *

Peter was lying on his bed, idly texting Johnny, who had jetted off in California for the day doing something very mysterious that involved some kind of legal terms Peter was pretty sure Johnny should be paying more attention to. When he’d told him that, Johnny had said that’s what they had Reed and Sue for, and besides, Johnny had more important things on his mind.

 _Like what you’re wearing,_ Johnny sent. _That’s a hint, genius._

This was the life, Peter reflected, when you were dating a word famous celebrity. Lying flat on his back on his twin mattress in his childhood bedroom in Queens, about to erotically describe the brand new hole in his boxers.

He settled in to thrill Johnny with his tale of synthetic fabrics when the news flashed to a breaking story. Peter put down his cellphone and sat up, frowning.

“An old what with what now,” he addressed the television.

The story didn’t change. There was an old man with wings, terrorizing a bank in Flushing. On top of the wings, he had hostages. Peter grabbed the suit.

One fast swing later, he hit the scene. It was still active, with cops on the scene, lights flashing and guns drawn. And there was the old guy himself, inside the bank. Peter’s spider sense gave a faint twinge.

He touched down on top of a cop car, landing in a crouch.

“Alright, guys,” he said. “What’ve you got for me today?”

“It’s real weird, Spider-Man – this guy, he could’ve taken off already. It’s like he’s waiting for something. He won’t tell us what he wants,” one of the cops said. “He’s been calling himself the Vulture.”

Peter peered at him through the glass door of the bank. The sleek body armor padded him out, but Peter was sure that without it he’d look frail and thin. Peter wondered what the hell his game was.

“Huh,” he said. “You sure he didn’t mean the Buzzard?”

There was an easy way into the building through a high up window. The Vulture clearly didn’t see him slip in. Peter crept across the ceiling, watching as the Vulture paced, muttering something to himself under his breath.

What was he waiting for, Peter wondered?

He waited for his moment, picking a moment where the Vulture was far away from his little group of hostages, and then he dropped from the ceiling, dangling upside down on a webline – right in front of the Vulture’s face.

“Hey,” Peter said. “I’d like to speak to Big Bird.”

Up close, the Vulture looked even more haggard than his thin frame had suggested from afar. The skin of his face was pulled tight over the bones, thin and paper-y. His eyes were deeply sunken, set between a long hooked nose, and there was nothing but hatred in his gaze as he stared back at Peter.

“Took you long enough,” the Vulture said, and that and his spider-sense were all the warning Peter got before the Vulture slammed into him. The force of the armor and those mechanical wings propelled them back backwards, through the plate glass window.

Peter rolled with the impact, getting to his feet as quickly as he could. Behind him, he could feel the prickle of energy, the crowd reacting to the sudden move, the officers raising their weapons. He flung out his arm, a silent halting gesture. The Vulture, for all his high tech armor, was slower to recover, staggering in the street. He stumbled before he drew himself up to his full height.

Peter wondered if he’d even be able to stand without that armor. He needed to end this, fast.

“Wait,” Peter said, holding out a hand, one finger extended. “Wait, hold on a second, time out, I need a moment.”

“What?” said the Vulture.

“I’m just processing the,” he waved to the wings, first, then to the green suit, and then finally to the Vulture’s wizened face. The suit was more powerful than Peter had anticipated. He needed to keep him off his balance. “There’s just a lot going on here. How old are you, sir?”

The Vulture flushed red. “I –”

“Do your great, great, great,” Peter took a breath just long enough for the Vulture to open his mouth again, before rushing ahead with, “great, great, great grandchildren know where you are? Is there a number I can call?” He sobered before he gave the old guy a stroke. “Listen, there’s clearly some kind of story here. Why don’t you let the nice people go and you can tell me all about it?”

“Die, Spider-Man,” the Vulture said, and his huge mechanical wings fanned out behind him and started to hum as he rose into the air.

Peter guessed it didn’t get much clearer than that.

“Oh, buddy, the nursing home must be missing you,” he shouted.

He shot out a webline and it connected with the Vulture’s heel. Peter stuck his own feet firmly to the ground and yanked – hard.

The squawking sound the old guy made was sort of vulture-like, at least. For a second Peter thought he had him as he tried to reel him in, but the Vulture twisted, and one of those long metal – and surprisingly flexible – wings severed Peter’s webline.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

He didn’t have the time to be shocked. The Vulture turned and dove, slamming into him, and before he knew it he was being lifted off the ground. His spider-sense blared as the cops fired, but the bullets bounced off the Vulture’s wings.

Two surprises, one after the other. He hadn’t foreseen the Vulture taking him airborne, just like he hadn’t factored in him being able to break his webbing. He needed to get those wings handled, and fast, before someone got hurt.

The way the night was going, it was probably going to be him.

He wrenched himself out of the Vulture’s grip, twisting as he fell. He rolled with the impact when he hit the rooftop, pulling himself back up on his feet. The Vulture was hovering in the air just beyond the edge of the roof.

“Okay,” Peter said, his hands held upwards in a deceptive gesture of peace. One quick move, though, and he could fire his webshooters. “Let’s talk, okay? I just wanna talk.”

“Talk?” the Vulture said, laughing high and hoarse.

“Look,” Peter said. “I’m sure it hasn’t passed you by that you’re not exactly in the usual age bracket for the whole armed bank robbery thing. The wings, the tech – that’s impressive. You build those? What’s your game here?”

“I have nothing personal against you, Spider-Man,” the Vulture said. “But if you don’t fall tonight, he won’t help my grandson.”

“Hey, whoa, slow down,” Peter said, dodging another swipe from one of the Vulture’s wings. “Let’s get on the same page here. He, who? What does your grandson need help with? Talk to me, I can help you.”

“You can’t help me,” the Vulture sneered. “The only thing you can do for me is die.”

“Tough talk from a canary,” Peter said, twisting his swing high.

He timed it just right and landed on the Vulture’s back on the tips of his toes, balanced at the point where the wings met at the harness. The old man swerved dangerously under Peter’s weight, and Peter knew he had to work fast if his plan was going to stick.

“Last chance to land this thing!” he shouted.

“Insect!” the Vulture cried.

“Alright, have it your way,” Peter said, and began to web the Vulture’s wings, focusing more on restriction than anything else.

The webbing also gummed up the motors. If the Vulture didn’t stop, his wings were going to overheat and explode. Peter couldn’t let that happen – he had no desire to blow himself up along with an old man.

“Here goes nothing,” he said, more to himself than to the Vulture.

His fingers tore through the metal and machinery, his teeth gritted against the pain. There wasn’t any other choice. The gummed up machinery screeched under his hands.

“What are you doing?” the Vulture demanded, sounding panicked now. “My wings – you’ll kill us both!”

The wings failed. The ground rushed up to meet them. Peter had to calculate this next move just right. He took a breath, twisting them so the Vulture was on top of him, and flipped his wrists over, middle and ring fingers pressed to the triggers on his webshooters.

The weblines caught and stuck. Their fall slowed and stopped. Down below, the onlooking crowd went wild.

“Thank you, New York!” Peter crowed. A little extra webbing and he flipped himself away from the Vulture. leaving him webbed a good five feet above the ground. He gave the crowd a lazy two-fingered salute. “Just remember that I am available for any and all flying senior citizen infestations. The number on the van is 1-800-SPIDEY.”

Someone behind the police barricade reached out to highfive him, and Peter obliged. Before long he was leaning on the railing, the mask raised enough to sip a cup of slightly burnt coffee someone had bought him while the police got the Vulture down.

“Get him back to the old folks’ penitentiary safe now, will ya, fellas?” Peter told the cops.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance, Spider-Man,” the Vulture said, staring at Peter with pure hatred in his eyes as the cops led him, restrained now, past. “He was right about you. You care too much for your own good.”

That brought Peter up short. “He, who?”

“Mr. Osborn sends his regards, Spider-Man,” the Vulture said as he was loaded into the back of an armored police van. Ice flashed in Peter’s veins. He made a move as if to start forward, like he was going to – what? Grab the car by the bumper and stop it from driving off? Rip off the car door? Beat the answer out of an old man?

It was too late. The car was already driving away.

“No,” he said to himself as the lights of the car faded into the distance. “No. It can’t be.”

* * *

Ravenscroft wasn’t a place he could just swing into. He had to make an appointment. It had to be approved. A small part of him hoped that Harry would refuse to see him.

(If Harry refused to see him, if official channels were denied, Peter would go anyway. He’d go alone at night and he’d sneak past the guards. The bars on Harry’s cell wouldn’t keep him safe. They’d be alone, and Peter could – what? He didn’t know. He couldn’t think about it too hard or he’d make himself sick.)

Harry agreed to see him. Peter wasn’t surprised. Harry had, after all, set this whole thing up. He could see that clearly now. If Harry had set it up, then he wanted to see Peter. If he wanted to see Peter, then he had something to say.

He’d had to leave the webshooters at home to go through the metal detectors. It didn’t matter. If it came down to it, Peter could tear Harry apart with his bare hands.

“Careful,” the guard said as he stepped back to let Peter into the room. “Doesn’t look like much, but he can be nasty.”

Peter just nodded, mute, and stepped into the room. He didn’t know what he’d expected to see. The monster from that night, maybe. The thing Harry had turned himself into because he just couldn’t wait, just couldn’t let Peter figure it out.

Peter had wanted to save him. All they’d needed was more time.

( _Except_ , a little part of his mind whispered, _you were going to get on that plane with Gwen._ )

Harry’s pale skin was washed out by the neon orange of his Ravenscroft uniform, his face tinged a sickly sort of green. His hair no longer stiffly stuck straight up, but fell soft if slightly greasy across his forehead. His eyes were still too bright.

Harry had always had incredible eyes.

“Peter,” he said, smiling like they were meeting across a boardroom and not at all like Harry was handcuffed to the table. “Please. Take a seat.”

He gestured as well as he could with the cuffs in place. The chair scraped loudly against the floor as Peter pulled it out.

“Hey, Harry,” he said, sitting down. He waited – for Harry to say something else, for Harry to throw a tantrum, for Harry to become that thing again. But Harry just sat there with that mild smile and that glint in his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. Mostly. It comes and goes,” Harry said. Something crept behind his eyes, green with envy. “Like you care.”

Peter could have risen to that bait, but the truth was, Harry was right. He didn’t care. He’d stopped caring about what happened to Harry that night at the clock tower. Instead he pulled his chair in closer, making sure the legs screeched against the hard floor, and then he leaned in close, looking Harry straight in the eye.

“Is there something you want to tell me about, Harry?” he asked, his voice low.

Harry’s smile was slow and sickly sweet. Peter had leaned forward; now, Harry leaned back. If his hands hadn’t been shackled, Peter thought he might have tucked them behind his head, smug.

“I see you got my message,” he said.

“What I got,” Peter said, pouring deadly intent into every word, “was an eighty year old man playing Tweety Bird, who told me that “Mr. Osborn” sends me his regards. So yeah, Harry. I got your message.”

“I didn’t personally pick the candidates,” Harry said. “But I’m glad the Vulture piqued your interests. Oscorp still does good work, don’t they?”

“You threatening old men now, Harry?” Peter said. “You’re lying to them?”

“I’m embellishing,” Harry said, nonchalant. “When you need to close a deal, you do what you have to. An old man has a sick little grandson he loves, you say you can cure him, even if you can’t. What’s important is that you get them on the hook. It’s the old Osborn way.”

“I don’t care,” Peter said. “I don’t care that you’re sending guys after me, Harry. And you know why? Because I’m going to tear them apart.”

“Well, well,” Harry said, corner of his mouth twitching up. “Peter Parker, the barbarian. What do you know.”

“Did you tell them?” Peter asked, refusing to rise to the bait.

Harry tilted his head to the side, his eyes glimmering, that milquetoast smile still spread across his face, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Peter wanted to bash his head open against the table.

“Tell them what?” Harry asked, voice dripping insincerity.

“Don’t play games,” Peter told him.

“Oh, you mean, did I tell them your big secret?” Harry asked, smile widening. “The creepy crawly one that lives in the back of your closet? Your, ah, extracurricular activity?”

“Harry,” Peter said, the firmness of his voice hiding the way his hands shook under the table. He could grab him. He could grab him and then it would all be over. “Tell me.”

Harry had to know that Peter could end it all in this room and that it would only take seconds for him to do it. Harry had to know that Peter didn’t even care if he never made it out again. Let him rot in some cell in Ravenscroft, what did he care.

If Harry knew all of that, then he had to have some other card in play. He forced his hands to uncurl from fists.

The smile had fallen from Harry’s face. Something passed over his eyes, a shadow. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and tremulous.

“The secret that meant more to you than me dying?” Harry asked, staring at Peter with his wet, luminous eyes and his pink, trembling mouth. It summoned a memory, unbidden – Harry sleeping over during a thunderstorm, curled against Peter’s side as the thunder and lightning crashed. Peter hadn’t liked storms either, not since the night his parents had left in the pouring rain, but he could be brave for Harry as they huddled together under May’s handmade quilt a lifetime ago.

He’d been good at being brave for Harry.

They’d just been little kids. Maybe a week later, Harry had been shipped off to boarding school. Norman Osborn hadn’t even let Harry say goodbye.

In some other life, Peter’s heart softened. In some other life, he said, “Har, no, that’s not it,” and let that softness seep into his voice. But Harry had taken that away from him.

The fragility swept from Harry’s expression as quickly as it had come, and then the smile was back, too sharp. The light glinted against the edges of Harry’s teeth, almost electric.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t tell them. You don’t give the help the combination to the family jewels, Peter.”

He said it like it was obvious, like it was a boring, foregone conclusion. Like it wasn’t Peter’s life hanging in the balance. Maybe Harry thought that was fair.

“How many are there?” he asked.

Harry smile turned bland as he leaned back in his seat. It was like Peter was sitting across from him at his desk again, for one strange moment, reliving Harry twirling the memory stick around his fingers and telling Peter that he had something to show him.

“You don’t think I’m really going to tell you that, do you?” Harry said.

“What’s the endgame here, Harry?” Peter said. “What’s the point? To punish me?”

“And we have a winner!” Harry said, crowing with laughter.

“It’s one thing to go after me,” Peter said, his voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. “But if you so much as touch a hair on my aunt’s head, so help me, all the walls and guards in this place, every single low life criminal you can put in experimental Oscorp armor? They won’t be able to keep me away from you.”

“May’s a good woman,” Harry said, eyes like flecks of ice. “She was always kind to me when we were kids. I would never do anything to hurt her.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to believe that, Harry,” Peter said.

Harry tilted his head, mouth set in a proud line. For one awful second, he almost looked like his old self. “An Osborn’s only as good as his word. You remember dear old dad saying that one, don’t you?”

Peter did. He remembered more, he suspected, than Harry thought he did. The punishing grip of Norman’s big hand around Harry’s small wrist. The way Uncle Ben’s eyes had always gone hard. _“Osborns don’t snivel, Harry.”_

He’d been a kid. His world had been his uncle’s solid shoulder and strong arms when he got tired, his aunt’s soft hands and warm smile. His parents, when they were alive, had never been anything but loving. He hadn’t known. The knowledge didn’t make it any easier.

“Yeah, Harry,” he said, swallowing hard. “I remember.”

“So you can believe me when I tell you that I will not have one hair on your aunt’s head harmed,” Harry said, the perfect businessman, even sitting in orange and handcuffs, so pale he practically glowed under the fluorescent lights. “That’s a promise, Peter.”

Peter pushed his chair back.

“I stopped being able to believe what you said a long time ago, Harry,” he said, turning and gesturing to the man behind the door that he wanted to leave now.

“One last thing before you go,” Harry called after him, laughing the way he’d laughed that night at the clock tower. “Congrats on the new flame.”

Peter’s blood froze in his veins.

“No,” he said, turning back around. “No, no, you don’t get to –”

Harry stared back with those ice blue eyes.

“I don’t get to what, Peter?” he asked.

“You don’t – you don’t get to touch him,” Peter said. “No. No, not him.”

Harry turned his hands over in his restraints. “Now how would I do that?”

Peter lunged at him.

Instantly the door was open and security flooded in. Two huge men grabbed Peter by the arms, restraining him.

“See, that’s the great thing about being in here,” Harry said mildly. “You can’t touch me. But me? I can touch anyone I want.”

Peter growled, fear and rage and memory rendering him wordless.

The guards hauled him back. He played it over in his head – shaking them off as easy as ragdolls, slamming Harry back against the wall, again and again, Harry’s bones breaking under his hands, as easily snapped as twigs – but he could only breath raggedly through his teeth, every inch of him aching with the restraint it was taking not to _move_.

Two seconds, and he could tear through Harry. His childhood friend, his confidante, the narrow shoulder he’d leaned on.

Harry, his first kiss.

It had been brief, clumsy. Just kids messing around. But it happened, there, in the afternoon light of Peter’s living room in Queens, Harry’s pale cheeks dusted strawberry pink as he pulled back, and all Peter had been able to do was look at his mouth and feel the phantom tingle of it pressed against his own. They hadn’t talked about it, after. Hadn’t done it again.

He’d thought about it, seeing Harry at the top of those stairs for the first time in eight years. For one second, he’d let himself think – maybe.

The memory revolted him now.

He knew Harry was thinking of it, too. He could see the memory of it in his eyes, in the way he inclined his head. They’d always been able to read each other too easily.

“Yeah,” Harry said, mouth curving in a smile. “I think we’re done here. See Mr. Parker here out, would you gentlemen?”

Peter shrugged the guards off and straightened up.

“I’m fine,” he said, turning around and heading through the door. His skin crawled; he didn’t want anyone’s hands on him, and he didn’t need escorting. “I’m leaving.”

“You were mine first, Peter Parker!” Harry said, laughing raucously. “Don’t you forget that!”

The door slammed shut. The laughter stopped. But Peter could still hear it, ringing in his ears.

“Hey,” one of the guards said to Peter. Peter barely registered the sound of his voice. “What a creep, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. His throat felt like it wasn’t working quite right. His voice sounded strained to his own ear. The guard put a hand on his shoulder, probably meant to be comforting, but Peter shrugged him off, jerking away.

He followed the guards down the hall. He went through the process of checking out. He left the building and stepped out into the open air, and for a moment he couldn’t remember which way to go.

Everything crashed down around him. The hatred in Harry’s clear blue eyes. The memory of how small he’d been when they were kids, older than Peter but with those bird bones he still possessed, how his fingers had felt twisted with Peter’s as Peter’s mother ushered them across a busy street. Norman Osborn’s big hand around that thin wrist. He remembered seeing Harry again, in the gloom at the top of that staircase. _You got your braces off. Now there’s nothing to distract from your unibrow._ He remembered laughing wildly, so happy in that moment, feeling like he’d gotten a piece of himself back as he embraced Harry.

Then he remembered Gwen, standing with the lights of the holiday market shining on her hair. Gwen, smiling up at him. Gwen, telling him she was moving to England.

Gwen, falling.

He didn’t know how he made it to the subway. He’d just kept putting one foot in front of the other. He rode the train with his feet planted to the floor of train and his head in the past, barely pretending to be holding onto the subway pole, and he almost missed his stop.

He stepped off the subway, into the crowd, and then he just stopped. It was like his feet were rooted to the ground, and that those roots had traveled up his legs, had grown into him, tangling in his muscles and his veins and filling up his lungs, thick and gnarled and thorny. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

“Hey, idiot! You’re blocking traffic!” A large, older man bumped into him, shoulder colliding with Peter’s with the intent to make him stumble and get out of the way. Instead, the man nearly landed on his ass, stumbling himself and nearly losing his grip on his briefcase.

“Freak,” he said, moving away from Peter. “Whatever.”

Peter barely noticed.

There, up ahead, by the turnstiles, there they stood. Gwen was wearing a lavender coat and her favorite knee high boots, her hair hanging perfectly straight, like when he’d first met her in high school. She looked beautiful, just like always, like Peter couldn’t believe she was even real. She had on pearl earrings, and she was searching for something in her bag.

Behind her stood her father. Captain Stacy’s eyes glimmered in that knowing way, and he was proud and tall in his uniform, his jaw set like he was ready to read Peter his rights. Like he knew something Peter didn’t.

 _Leave Gwen out of it_.

A child stumbled into his leg and bounced off of him, sprawling out on the ground, and her loud cry shocked him out of it. The roots cleared and his vision sharpened at the edges, the sound of the world rushing back in so suddenly it shocked him to realize it had faded for him at all.

The little girl’s mother grabbed her by the arm, pulling her off the ground. She glared at Peter as she whisked her child into the waiting train, hurrying so they wouldn’t miss it. The little girl had on a shiny plastic Spider-Man backpack, and Peter watched as his own mask disappeared around the train doors.

He looked back over at the turnstiles. The blond girl standing there looked nothing like Gwen. She was wearing a grey sweater, not a lavender coat, and she had on beat up old sneakers, not Gwen’s stylish boots. Her hair was the wrong shade of blond. Peter couldn’t even make out her earrings. The man standing behind her was just a man in a suit on his phone.

_Congrats on the new flame._

Peter turned in the direction away from the one he’d been heading in and ran.


	7. Chapter Six

Johnny had been back from Los Angeles for five days now, and Peter still hadn’t seen him, citing that he was busy – Spider-Man, classes, rinse and repeat. He hadn’t been able to look at him, not with _Mr. Osborn sends his regards_ rolling around in his head. He had been afraid that he’d take one look at Johnny and just crack in two.

Now Johnny was the only person he wanted to see.

Johnny was lying on the couch in the Fantastic Four’s spacious living room, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when Peter landed in a crouch on his windowsill, balanced on the tips of his toes.

Johnny grinned, wide and honest. Every emotion always showed on his face. Peter loved that about him, but right now he couldn’t see anything but Johnny, beaten, broken, buried by Harry.

Peter almost turned around and swung right back the way he’d come from, even as Johnny got up to open the window for him. This was the mistake he’d made before. Captain Stacy’s words echoed in his head: _People are going to get hurt._

He should stay away from Johnny, but he needed to touch him so badly. Just once, he told himself as Johnny forced the window up, smiling at him like Spider-Man was the best thing he’d seen all day. Just one more time. Just one more kiss.

Let him have this again, he prayed, just once.

“Hey, man,” Johnny said, reaching for him as Peter climbed through the window. Peter cut him off with a kiss. It was too hard, too desperate, whatever Johnny had been about to say drowned out by the press of Peter’s lips.

Peter’s hands were shaking where they held his waist.

Johnny drew back, but Peter wouldn’t let him go far. He couldn’t have let go if he wanted to. Johnny was so _warm_.

“What was that about?” Johnny asked, raising a hand to his lips. He wasn’t smiling anymore, and Peter’s heart broke a little bit.

“Hey, hey,” Peter said, barely hearing the words. He leaned his forehead against Johnny’s and Johnny made a soft noise, a little _oh_. “I need – I need you to do something for me. Okay?”

“Oh, you need me to do _something_ for you,” Johnny said, grinning. He kissed Peter; Peter let him, trying to memorize it, this, just the press of Johnny’s warm, full lips, the warmth of him, easygoing, fitting so nicely against Peter. He closed his eyes and just let himself _feel_ it.

“I need you to get out of New York,” he breathed against Johnny’s lips.

“What?” Johnny said, reeling back.

“You gotta go, you gotta get out of New York,” Peter said, cradling Johnny’s face between his hands. “Please. Please, take your sister and your team and just go. I need you to go somewhere far, far away.”

“What the hell is going on?” Johnny asked, frowning. He caught Peter by the wrists, trying to tug at his hands, but Peter was so much stronger – Harry would be so much stronger. He couldn’t stop seeing it in his head: Johnny, flames snuffed, at Harry’s horrible mercy.

He pulled Johnny towards him, resting their foreheads together, and closed his eyes.

“Spidey,” Johnny said, softly. “Breathe, okay, dude? Breathe with me.”

Peter couldn’t breathe – he could only act.

“Listen, listen to me,” he said. “There’s a – there’s a bad guy, okay? There’s a guy out there, and he hates me, and he knows about you. And he’s going to do everything he can to hurt you, because that’s what’s going to hurt me.”

“I don’t understand,” Johnny said.

“Yeah, you do,” Peter said. “Johnny, I – you know, you know how I feel about you.”

“Peter,” Johnny said.

“You know,” Peter told him. “You know.”

Gwen’s body in his arms had weighed nothing, but she’d been the heaviest thing he’d ever had to carry. He’d stumbled every single step out of that clock tower.

“Please,” Peter said. “Johnny, please.”

He kissed him hard, cutting off Johnny’s muffled noise of surprise. He was so warm – his skin, his mouth. Peter wanted to lose himself in him so badly, to drown in him and never resurface. No big buzzing city out there, no Fantastic Four, no Spider-Man, no Oscorp, no Harry. Just him and Johnny, alone in the world.

Johnny broke the kiss and the world rushed back in. Peter hated it. He curled his hand at the back of Johnny’s neck and brought him forward again, covering Johnny’s mouth with his own.

“Spidey,” Johnny murmured in between kisses, Peter cutting him off before he could get the name out entirely. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t listen. He didn’t want to.

“Please,” he said, his mouth falling on Johnny’s cheek, the corner of his jaw, down his throat as Johnny tipped his head back and bared his neck for him. He wanted this, needed this, even if he only had it the one last time. “Please, I need you.”

“Let’s go to my room,” Johnny said. “Let’s just go to my room, okay?”

That was easier said than done when Peter couldn’t let go of Johnny, but Johnny didn’t seem to mind. They stumbled, together, in some vague direction, bumping into furniture and the walls, lips locked and hands roaming. Johnny swept his shirt from him and tossed it somewhere in the direction of the couch, and that was just fine with Peter. Clothes were an impediment, just a barrier between him and Johnny.

Somehow, they made it to Johnny’s room. Johnny fumbled behind him to lock the door, and then he was on Peter again, hot and hard and perfect. Peter got his hands under Johnny’s thighs and lifted, and Johnny readily locked his legs around Peter’s waist. The whole world narrowed to the negligible weight of Johnny in his arms and Johnny’s hot mouth over Peter as he walked backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed.

They fell. Johnny laughed, wild and free, placing his hands against Peter’s chest and using them to leverage himself up. He was practically glowing, but whatever he saw on Peter’s face made him abruptly stop.

“Hey,” he said, reaching to cup Peter’s cheek. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Whatever it is, you and me, we can handle it. Come on, talk to me.”

But Peter couldn’t speak. When he looked up at Johnny, he saw him in double – Johnny, here and whole and warm and alive, on top of Peter, and Johnny, with green armored hands wrapped around his throat, all because of Peter.

He should never have touched him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, getting his elbows underneath him and sitting up.

“Shh, shh,” Johnny soothed, reaching up stroking Peter’s hair. “Hey, no. Nothing to be sorry for. I got you, man. I’ve got you. I know what you need.”

“I need you,” Peter said, and Johnny cut him off with a kiss before he could finish _to get out of New York_ \-- or, _to never stop touching me_ \-- and Peter forgot how to speak, how to do anything but kiss Johnny.

He didn’t know what he was asking for. Johnny to leave. Johnny to get him off. Johnny to be like this forever, warm and perfect and touching Peter, safe for the moment in the circle of his arms.

“Just let go,” Johnny said, pushing him back down on his back and crawling on top of him. “Just let everything go, just for a little while. I’m here. You feel me?”

“I feel you,” Peter said, reaching for him. Johnny caught his hands and threaded their fingers together, pushing Peter’s hands down on the bed.

“Relax,” Johnny said, smiling at him. “I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Melt all your worries away.”

Then his hot mouth was over Peter’s again, and that was the only thing that mattered. Screw the rest of the world, this was what he wanted -- Johnny on top of him, and Johnny’s mouth, plush lips and clever tongue, and Johnny’s hands on Peter’s body.

Peter wanted him. All of him.

He hadn’t realized he’d said that out loud until Johnny replied, “All you ever had to do was ask.”

The rest of their clothes fell away, expertly removed by Johnny’s warm hands. Those hands swept down Peter’s chest, making a path that Johnny followed with his mouth. The bed underneath him was soft, and Johnny was a warm, comforting weight, and Peter wanted him and, for once, it was almost easy to let everything else go. For once, it was almost easy to quiet his thoughts and shut out the rest of the world. He and Johnny were all that was in the moment. All that mattered.

It was almost easy to forget.

“I need you,” he murmured against Johnny’s lips, his hand curled at the back of his neck and his hard cock pressing against the muscled planes of Johnny’s stomach. “Please, I can’t think anymore, I can’t do it.” He bit Johnny’s lip, then soothed over it with his tongue. “I need more.”

Johnny broke the kiss and looked down at him, something serious and considering in his eyes.

“Okay,” he said. He leaned off Peter, balancing precariously on his knees and the palm of one hand as he yanked his bedside drawer opened. Peter followed after him, running his hand up Johnny’s thigh, unwilling to stop touching him for even a minute.

Johnny turned back to him, holding in his hand a tube of lube and a condom packet. He raised his eyebrows pointedly and, in reply, Peter leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss against his thigh, then settled back down against Johnny’s plush mattress.

Johnny put on a show, grinning down at Peter as he fucked himself with his own fingers. He grinned when Peter slid his hands up his thighs, saying, “Did I say you could touch yet?”, but Peter couldn’t possibly take his hands off of him now that he’d put them there.

“So make me move them,” he said, hoarse, digging his fingers in just shy of bruising. Johnny groaned, his eyes fluttering shut.

“You like that?” Peter asked, voice rough. It was a double edged knife: the incredible idea of Johnny, turned on by his strength, and the terrifying knowledge that that same strength could hurt him, if Peter held too tightly, or grabbed too hard.

If someone else with that same strength wanted to hurt Johnny. He’d never been afraid of what he could do before, not here, not in bed. He hated it, and he hated Harry for making him feel this way.

“Please, Johnny,” he croaked, letting go. “Please. I need you.”

“You’ve got me,” Johnny said. “You had me from the first day.”

He rolled the condom down onto Peter’s cock and slicked him up, then lined himself up. He teased for a moment, sliding the head of Peter’s dick over his hole again and again, and Peter groaned, his hands locked around the bars of Johnny’s headboard so he wouldn’t grab him and do it himself, desperate to be in Johnny already. The bars creaked under his grip, the metal just slightly giving away before Peter got his strength under control, and Johnny froze, eyeing his hands.

“Fuck,” Johnny breathed out, wonder in his voice. “That’s hot.” He licked his lips and said, “I trust you. You know that, right? So stop breaking my bed.”

Peter weighed the heavy knot of anxiety in his chest, ever present this past week, against the way Johnny was looking at him. Slowly, he uncurled his hands from the headboard and slower still he slid them up Johnny’s strong thighs.

“Better?” he asked softly.

“Much. Ready?” Johnny asked. Peter nodded breathlessly, transfixed by the sight of Johnny, the pulsing heat of him, and then Johnny was sinking down. Peter’s mouth dropped open, his eyes closed. He couldn’t think. All he could do was _feel_.

Peter threw his head back, breathing hard, eyes brimming. Johnny was so hot and tight around him, so perfect above him, and he couldn’t lose this, he couldn’t lose him.

“Fuck,” he said, the word tearing itself from him. “Fuck, Johnny!”

“I got you,” Johnny said, soothing. “I’m going to make this so good for you, Peter, I’m gonna be so good –"

“You’re perfect,” Peter told him. “You’re amazing.”

“Flatterer,” Johnny said, smiling. It was that smile that Peter had first noticed – big and sunshine bright, and now it was directed at Peter as Johnny started to ride him, working his hips in perfect circles. Peter’s breath caught in his throat for more reasons than one. “Back at you.”

Peter couldn’t stand being still anymore – his grip on Johnny’s hips shifted, his fingers digging into the Johnny’s ass as he thrust his hips up, and Johnny grinned around a low groan.

“Is that how it’s going to be?” he asked, breath hitching around a laugh. “Peter Parker, in charge? That’s cool. That’s, _ah_ amazing.”

It was even better like this, when Peter could lift Johnny up and down on his cock, controlling the rhythm, dragging it out slow like molasses. Something vicious and primal curled in his veins every time Johnny moaned.

“Peter,” he said, voice stuttering as he said his name, and that was nice. Peter wanted to hear that again. “Pete, Spidey, please – faster.”

Faster was easy. Johnny could’ve asked him for anything – a million dollars, the torch from the Statue of Liberty, world peace, the moon – in that moment and Peter would have figured out a way to give it to him.

“Yeah,” Johnny gasped, moving with him. To Peter it felt like they were perfectly in sync. Johnny’s warmth sank into him from every place they touched, Peter’s hands on his ass, the press of Johnny’s muscled thighs, Peter’s cock deep inside him, and it curled possessive in his veins, settling under his skin. “Yeah, just like that, _oh_.”

Peter wanted to make it last, to drag it out as long as he could, so this moment could never end, but it was too much – the hot clench of Johnny’s body around his cock, the tingling heat suffusing his whole body, the hot-eyed look Johnny shot him, embers in his eyes.

“That’s it, baby,” Johnny said, throwing his head back to expose the long line of his throat and closing his eyes. “Come on.”

Peter came hard, choking on Johnny’s name. Johnny fucked him through it and then rolled off of him, collapsing onto his side. Two tugs on his cock and he came with a stifled groan, his lip caught between his teeth. Peter took him all in, every inch of him, wanting to remember this moment for the rest of his life: Johnny Storm, come undone.

“You’re gorgeous,” Peter said, his voice hoarse, and Johnny, his eyes closed, smiled.

They ended up lying together on the other side of the bed, facing each other practically nose-to-nose with one of Peter’s legs tossed over Johnny’s. Slats of cold winter sunlight fell across their bodies, but it was warm in this bed, and Johnny was warmer still. Peter’s skin tingled with the memory of Johnny’s body.

“That was…” Peter blew out a breath. “You’re incredible.”

“Yeah?” Johnny asked, grinning at him. “You weren’t half bad, either.”

The easy teasing startled a laugh from Peter, hard enough to make him shake with it.

Everything would be alright, Peter thought, looking at him, if they could just stay in this room forever. Stay in this bed forever, where he could be warm and sated and with Johnny. Where Johnny would be safe. Peter wouldn’t have to worry about anything, wouldn’t have to worry about Harry, wouldn’t have to think about anything but how his and Johnny’s bodies fit together. Maybe his real life’s calling had been making love to Johnny Storm this whole time.

So much for the responsibility and the moral obligations. Philosophy sucked anyway.

“Not half bad, huh?” he said. “I’m gonna make you regret that.”

“Are you back with me now?” Johnny asked. Peter nodded, reaching up to stroke a hand over his head, traveling across his brow to trace the shell of his ear. Johnny laughed when Peter leaned forward to kiss his nose.

“I’m with you,” he said. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Johnny smiled at him. He was so beautiful it made Peter’s heart ache.

“You really freaked me out before,” he said. Peter leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against Johnny’s, and smoothed a hand down his arm, marveling again at how warm his skin was, how his palm tingled where he touched him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His fingertips drifted to Johnny’s elbow and he repeated, “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” Johnny said, but Peter could only shake his head, left without the words to say – _sorry you didn’t meet me different. Sorry I can’t be who you need me to be. Sorry I’m only going to let you down._ Softer, Johnny whispered, “You can’t do anything wrong with me, hero.”

Peter reached out to palm his face. Everything in him ached.

“You don’t know how badly I wish that was true,” he said.

Johnny turned his face into Peter’s touch and kissed his palm, his eyes fluttering shut.

* * *

Johnny was sleeping.

Peter wasn’t – he was lying next to him, idly tracing a line up and down Johnny’s spine. Just watching him, warm and peaceful and sprawled out on his stomach like a starfish. Peter’s finger reached the sheet, resting just above the swell of Johnny’s ass, and then he started up again until he reached the base of his neck. Pause. Repeat. Pause. Repeat.

He’d told Gwen he couldn’t lose her.

He’d sat with her for so long that night, crosslegged on the ground, holding her body in his arms. He knew he had to get up, carry her out. Call 911. But then they’d take her away from him, heft her body out of his arms and it would be over. Gwen would be dead -- really, truly dead.

So he talked to her instead. About him. About how much he loved her. About how he’d always pictured England like a grainy PBS murder mystery special, grey and rainy and full of sensible policemen. Good detectives, like her dad. How they’d be happy there, walking in the rain. She’d go to Oxford and he’d find something to do – Peter Parker turning up selling photos of Spider-Man in England would be suspicious, he said, letting himself imagine her sarcastic reply. So he’d get a job in a bookstore, something lowkey, something ordinary, and they’d get an apartment and be happy.

“A flat,” he’d corrected himself in a truly atrocious British accent, and then he buried his face in her hair and sobbed her name.

Johnny sighed in his sleep as Peter climbed out of bed. He didn’t look at him as he shrugged on his pants and left Johnny’s bedroom.

His shirt was where Johnny had left it, thrown carelessly over the back of the couch.

He was headed for the window, tugging his shirt over his head and snagging his hoodie from where it had been tossed over a lamp, when his senses buzzed, ever so slight, a split second before someone cleared their throat. He turned and found Reed Richards standing in the doorway, wearing a lab coat over his blue Fantastic Four shirt.

Reed raised his eyebrows, but not like he was surprised to see Peter.

“Hi,” he said.

Caught red-handed, Peter could only croak out, “Uh, hey.”

“Elevator’s in the other direction,” Reed said.

“I’m, uh,” Peter said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m a friend of Johnny’s, I was just –"

“You’re the spider guy, yeah, I know,” Reed said. “I figured it out.”

Peter gaped at him. “How--?”

Reed shrugged, twisting the cap off a water bottle. “I’m smart.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, stilted, after a long minute where Reed declined to say anything else. “Yeah, I think I read that about you somewhere.”

“Are you sneaking out on Johnny?” Reed asked.

“Uh,” Peter said, caught off guard by the directness of the question. He pointed at the window, and then at himself, shaking his head. “No, I was just – I was just going to –”

“Because it looks a lot like you’re sneaking out the window,” Reed said, taking a sip of his water. He swallowed, and continued, “Behind Johnny’s back.”

It was like Peter was in two places at once. He was standing in the Fantastic Four’s sleek modern living room, staring at Mr. Fantastic, but in his head – in his heart – he was back on the roof of Oscorp, Gwen’s cure for Doc Connors’ Lizard serum raining down on them from the machine whose design had once lain in his father’s study, watching George Stacy die.

“You’re going to make enemies. People will get hurt,” he’d told Peter. A dying man’s wish. He’d known. In that moment, Gwen’s father had known how things would end. “I want you to promise me something: leave Gwen alone.”

In his head, he listened to George Stacy. He said he couldn’t see Gwen anymore, and he stuck to it. He never slid into that seat behind her in English class and he never told her that the best kinds of promises were the ones you couldn’t keep. He stayed away, like he should have promised.

Peter couldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“He’s better off without me in the picture,” Peter said.

“Alright, but,” Reed said, staring at Peter with his head cocked to the side like a bird. The angle of his neck was slightly off, his neck slightly too long for a normal man. “Don’t you think that should be Johnny’s decision?”

“I –” Peter started, but then he couldn’t find the words.

“Johnny’s smart,” Reed said. “He acts like he isn’t sometimes, but he is. And he’s strong. And he…” he glanced away, his jaw tightening. No, contracting. It was so weird to watch him, the elastic way he moved. “When I – left them, when I came back, Johnny just – forgave me.”

Peter had no idea what he was talking about. Johnny had never said anything about Reed leaving the other members of the Fantastic Four.

Reed cleared his throat awkwardly. “So I don’t want to see him get left by anyone else.”

Peter reframed the situation, imagined himself standing in Reed’s shoes, staring down the vigilante sleeping with his teammate, the one who was sneaking out while Johnny lay in bed, blissfully unaware and happily – Peter hoped happily – dreaming.

Suddenly he wanted to punch himself in the face, too.

Peter let out a breath. “I get it. I do.”

“You don’t,” Reed said, but it wasn’t mean. It was just blunt. And Peter guessed he didn’t, if he had no idea what Reed was talking about. Johnny had shared a little of what his life had been like, before the Fantastic Four had arrived in New York. But only a little.

“If you care about him,” Peter said, “then that’s – then I’m not someone you want around him.”

Reed shrugged, screwing the top back onto his water. “Maybe not. I just know that Johnny wants you around him.”

 _My choice,_ Gwen had said, that night. _Mine._

What would she say if she caught him sneaking out the window? How many times had they had this argument?

It didn’t matter. She was still dead.

“I have to get back to the lab. If you’re going to go,” Reed said as he walked away, “then you really should use the elevator. There are usually a lot of people with cameras outside the building this time of day. Spider-Man’s going to get a lot more noticed than the Amazing Delivery Boy-Looking Guy.”

“Hey,” Peter called at his back. “If you knew -- was that elevator line a joke?”

“Yeah,” Reed said, voice completely flat. “I’m a real laugh riot.”

Peter stood in the living room for a long time before he took Reed’s advice and headed for the elevator. His finger lingered just over the down button.

He lowered his hand and turned around.

* * *

“Hey,” Johnny said, yawning, when Peter climbed back into bed. He turned towards Peter, snuggling against him. It was so easy to hold him. Peter wanted nothing else. “You were gone kind of a while. Thought maybe you snuck out on me.”

“No,” Peter said, ducking his head to kiss him. Johnny hummed into it, smiling against Peter’s mouth. “No, no, where would I go? You’re here.”

“Wow,” Johnny said, mockingly, but he didn’t stop kissing him, over and over until the space where their mouths met was Peter’s whole world, until there was nothing beyond where their skin touched.

Johnny’s legs fell open so Peter could get between them, Peter’s hand running up his thigh. He was so warm and beautiful and he shivered under Peter’s touch, perfect, and he wanted Peter. Peter wanted him.

“Wanna go again?” Johnny whispered in the space between them.

Peter nodded. Johnny kissed him again, hand against the back of his neck, and then slid his hand up into Peter’s hair so he could press Peter’s forehead down against his. “If it’s good by you.”

“More than good by me,” he said. “How do you want me?”

“How do you want me to want you?” Peter asked, grinning.

“That’s not a fair question,” Johnny said, tracing a finger down Peter’s nose. Peter went cross-eyed following its path and Johnny laughed. “I want you to want me any way you can get me.”

“And,” Peter said, voice teasing now, fingers skating up and down Johnny’s thigh. He said it like the old Abbott and Costello routine -- _no, I’m asking you, who’s on first_? “How can I get you?”

Johnny grinned.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about earlier?” Johnny asked after, running his fingers through Peter’s hair, over and over until it stood on end. Peter shook his head, so Johnny nodded, knocking his forehead against Peter’s. He tugged lightly on his hair. “When you lost your damn mind?”

“I can’t,” Peter said.

“Because you’ve … been trusted with top secret information from the Secret Service?” Johnny said, tracing the shell of Peter’s ear with one finger. Peter snorted. “Is the fate of the country in Spider-Man’s hands? Bad men gonna come throw me in a van the second you spill?”

“Just one,” Peter said. “Just one bad man.”

“Talk to me,” Johnny said, stroking his fingertips over Peter’s cheek. “I’ve done the whole communication issues boyfriend thing before, okay? It’s not cute.” When Peter still didn’t answer, he said, “If there’s a bad guy after me, I think I should probably know about it.”

Peter nodded, a little distant, like Johnny’s words were washing over him more than anything else. Johnny stroked his hair again.

“So my dad,” Peter said, licking his lips. “My dad was this guy, this scientist. Richard Parker. Worked at Oscorp.” Johnny made a noise of recognition and Peter looked up sharply. “You know my dad?”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “I hated Baxter, but I still grew up there. I can rattle off the name of the names of scientists working on cross-species genetics like most guys can list sports facts. What do you _think_ my sister liked to talk about during family dinners?”

“Right, yeah,” Peter said. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“You’re pretty stuck in your own head right now,” Johnny said, but it was only a little bit an accusation. He tried to smooth the line between Peter’s brows with his thumb, but it only made Peter frown more.

“When I was a kid, I was just friends with the other Oscorp kids, right? I was a quiet kid. That’s who I knew,” Peter said, wetting his lips again. “And my dad was, obviously, pretty in with the Big O himself, so I got to be close with his son. Harry Osborn.”

“I’m following,” Johnny prompted when Peter lapsed into silence again.

“Harry, he…” Peter started to laugh, just a little at first, and then a lot. “I thought I was a weird kid, and then I met Harry. Richie Rich, literally. Ever seen a nine-year-old boy blow dry his hair? Priceless.” His smile softened. “But he was nice, you know? He was just really – he had this big heart. Loved pillow forts. Popcorn. The zoo. Kid stuff, y’know? And then my parents died and he – we were inseparable for a while there. Always together. He was like my shadow. And then his dad sent him off to boarding school and I didn’t see him for ten years.” A memory of a conversation floated back to him. He laughed a little, even though none of it was funny. “Sorry. Eight.”

He got quiet again, everything tumbling over itself in his head. It felt like different lives. Johnny just laid there and stroked his cheek, waiting him out.

“He got – he wanted my help. Spider-Man’s help. He wanted me to save him, because that’s what I do, y’know? Save people. But the way he wanted me to save him – it wasn’t going to work. I wanted to save him, I did, you gotta believe me –”

(He was going to get on the plane with Gwen.)

“I believe you, Peter,” Johnny said, cutting him off with a quick kiss. “I know you.” Peter’s heart ached as Johnny thumbed at his cheek, reaching up to stroke his hair back. “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know what he did,” Peter said, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I don’t. I went to Oscorp, after – but there was nobody left to ask. But he did – something to himself. I don’t know.”

He was rambling, tripping over his own words. His mouth couldn’t keep up with how fast his mind was working, replaying over every moment spent with Harry those scant few days after he’d come back to New York, when Peter had gone to his place to try and reach out. Had there been a moment he could have changed things? Had he missed it? If he could do it all over again, would he be able to pinpoint it, make it so it all went so differently?

If he gave Harry the damn blood, did the same thing happen anyway? Or did it kill him, like Peter thought it might? Would that have been better? Maybe. (Yes. He was going to follow Gwen.)

He startled when Johnny cupped his face between his hands and hushed him, then relaxed against him as Johnny pressed their foreheads together, his own eyes shut. Johnny was always so warm.

“It doesn’t matter,” Johnny said, thumb stroking at Peter’s cheek. “What happened?”

But Peter couldn’t seem to stop. He just kept repeating “I don’t know” over and over, and then he said, “I told her to run.”

The tears were falling before he could stop them, hot and helpless and furious. He worked his jaw but no other words would come. His own hands came up to cover Johnny’s, holding on because it was the only thing he could think to do in that moment.

“Shhh,” Johnny said, kissing his wet cheeks, his streaming eyes. “Shhh. I’ve got you.”

He folded his arms around Peter as he cried, resting his cheek on top of his hair. One hand stroked its way down Peter’s back in soothing, even circles.

“I got you,” Johnny repeated.

* * *

When Peter finally slept, it was fitful. He would still when Johnny touched him, though, when he stroked a hand through his hair and touched his back, so Johnny stayed awake, just keeping watch over him.

Peter looked serious even when he slept, his mouth downturned and that little line between his brows. Johnny felt sparks and sunlight in his chest every time he looked at him, a fierce surge of emotion, even when Peter was breaking his heart.

He was pretty sure he was falling in love. Not like he had been in love with Spider-Man – and okay, yeah, he could admit that now that he had the real deal. Back then he’d been in love with the image, with the freedom, with everything Spider-Man had represented to him. The chance to be different, to embrace that, the power to make a difference.

Being in love with Peter was so much more than that. Johnny had never felt like this before. Lit up from the inside out. Like he belonged to someone, in a way that made him all the more free.

It had torn him up, watching Peter cry.

Peter tried so hard to protect everyone. Johnny wanted to try and protect him.

He unlocked his phone, feeling a little bit like a creep, but wanting to capture the moment as he opened the camera. Peter Parker, asleep in his bed.

A hand reached up to cover it.

“What are you doing?” Peter mumbled, sleepy and content, for the moment. Johnny was going to enjoy it while he lasted, so he rolled onto his side and kissed him. Peter laughed into it, undistracted. “Hey, hey. Who’s the photographer here?”

“I have more Instagram followers than you,” Johnny shot back, nipping at Peter’s lower lip, grinning right back at him. “And before you pull the celebrity card, I had more _before_ , too.”

“Did you post a lot of photos of your face?” Peter asked, brushing his knuckles underneath Johnny’s chin to tip his face up. Their noses brushed. “That’d be why.”

Johnny swallowed, caught off guard by the heat in Peter’s eyes.

“Gorgeous,” Peter murmured, his eyes fixed on Johnny’s lips.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” Johnny replied, leaning back just to watch Peter lean forward, chasing after him. There was nowhere to go but back against the headboard, and Peter put his hands on either side of Johnny, effectively trapping him. Johnny didn’t have any complaints about that.

“Not _bad_?” Peter said, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. Johnny tipped his chin up, a challenge and an invitation all at once, and Peter eagerly accepted, his lips sliding against Johnny’s, a little chapped but warm and perfect.

It was a softer kiss than before. Peter was looking at him with something in his eyes that was a little questioning. His hair was even more of a mess than usual. His eyes were still red-rimmed.

“It’s okay,” Johnny murmured, leaning forward so his lips brushed Peter’s as he spoke. “It’s okay.”

Peter pulled back just enough to nod, his eyes fluttering shut, and then they were kissing again – still soft, but without the hesitancy. One of Peter’s hands came up to frame Johnny’s face, his fingertips splayed against his skin, holding Johnny like he was something breakable. Something precious.

“I got you,” Johnny murmured. “I do, I promise. I’ve got you now. I’m not letting go.”

Peter breathed out, slow. His thumb rubbed against Johnny’s cheekbone.

“Sometimes it’s better,” he said. “Letting go.”

“Do you believe that?” Johnny asked him. He slid his hand down over Peter’s heart, lingering for a moment at the center of his chest, where the spider insignia sat when he was in his costume. “Really?”

Peter closed his eyes and was silent.

“I’m not letting go, Peter,” Johnny said.

There was a beat, and then Peter said, “Guess there’s not a lot I can do to change your mind, huh?”

Johnny pressed his smile against the side of Peter’s head, burying his nose in his hair.

* * *

The specter of Harry’s threat hung over the next day, and the next, and the next, and then, gradually, the clouds broke. The invisible noose around Peter’s throat lessened. Harry had his resources – the money he’d once tried to bribe Peter with, somehow, and probably someone who was helping him inside of Oscorp, but he was still locked up inside of Ravenscroft, while Peter was free to make his move unhindered.

He knew the name of the game now. There’d be no more striking blindly at enemies in the dark while Harry played puppeteer from his prison cell.

The weight hadn’t been lifted, exactly. It had just been redistributed, and now Peter could shoulder it again. Johnny helped with that, more than he even knew. His warmth, his presence – he gave Peter something good to focus on. He could do this for Johnny.

But there were still some things he had to do on his own.

Harry could bring it on. Whatever he threw at him, Peter could throw back, twice as hard, and he didn’t need a long line of men in armored suits, bought with blood money and lies, to help him.

He waited until long after hours, and then he broke into Oscorp. Security cameras were webbed as he retraced his steps, back up to the office Harry had so briefly occupied.

Harry’s incarceration had sent Oscorp into chaos, a spiral of bad press. A man named Mendell Stromm had been instated, but following the one-two hit of Connors’ attempt to turn New York into the island of the giant lizards and the blackout that Electro had caused, Oscorp’s future seemed precarious.

The office was as impersonal as Peter remembered it, all black and chrome. He ran gloved fingers along the length of the desk, remembering Harry slamming down the newspaper.

_You know him._

_Don’t turn your back on me._

The memories lingered in the corners of the room like ghosts. Harry, bright-eyed, of course, but also Norman Osborn, Curt Connors. George Stacy, who’d died on the roof. Peter’s father and his work, built into these halls. Gwen. The spider lab. Part of Peter longed to head a few floors down, back to the place where he’d fatefully encountered the spiders. Part of him wanted to pull on the threads again, just to see what would happen.

Ultimately, it all came down to Oscorp. This place had made both of them, in one way or another.

Peter knew Harry. He knew that it had to come down to this place. There was a solution to Harry’s private little war in this building and Peter was going to find it, even if it killed him. Even if he had to take the building apart with his bare hands.

Peter’s spider-sense tingled a split second before the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Something flashed in his peripheral vision.

He wasn’t alone.

A figure hung across the room, suspended on two long metal arms while too more snaked through the air, giving him the look of an eight-limbed creature. Peter recognized the sleek silver armor now, knew the look of it. It matched Mysterio and the Vulture, and even the Rhino, although he thought that must have been an earlier prototype, clunky as it was.

It was an Oscorp design.

“You’re one of Harry’s goons,” he said.

The man inside the armor was about as physically impressive as the Vulture had been, for other reasons. He was short and overweight, with a round, clean shaven face, and a terribly cut head of dull brown hair that was just starting to go grey. He wore a pair of green-tinted goggles on his face, so at first glance it appeared that his eyes were massive. Underneath the silver harness with its four snake-like arms he wore an olive green jumpsuit that looked like it was made of some kind of canvas material.

Peter had seen his face somewhere before.

One of those long silver arms shot out, fast as a whip. Peter only just managed to throw himself out of the way. The arm ended up embedded in the desk; it was pulled it away with a sharp crack as the desk splintered.

“I,” the man said, completely still except for his slithering mechanical arms, “am Dr. Otto Octavius and I am no one’s ‘goon’.”

The name stirred something in Peter’s memory. Dr. Otto Octavius had been employed by Oscorp, and left the company shortly after his father had fled. There hadn’t seemed to be much of a connection, so Peter hadn’t done any more digging than that, but by all accounts it sounded like the departure hadn’t been an amicable one.

So why was he working for Harry now?

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one a time or two before,” Peter said, edging towards Octavius. He kept his movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to spook Octavius – or those long, long arms. “So, why do _you_ want to kill him, huh? Does Osborn have something on you, too, or was just his money enough motivation, huh?”

Octavius cocked his head to the side. “You think I’m here for you?”

“That seems to be how these little night time rendezvous with guys in Oscorp armor go,” Peter said, still creeping forward. “Are you saying you’re not here because Harry Osborn sent you after me? What’s your game? I’ve read about you. I know you used to work here --”

It was the wrong move. One of those long metal arms shot out and, as fast as Peter was, he wasn’t quite fast enough to dodge it. It caught him across the face, worse any punch he’d ever been on the receiving end of. He reeled backward, hand coming up to touch his face.

“Silence!” Octavius said. All four of his metal arms were moving now, and with his rotund body in the middle of them the impression Peter got was that of a strange, mechanical octopus man in a B movie. Octavius, Octopus, his mind supplied helpfully as his hand shot out to block another tentacle strike.

“Yeah, I’m pretty over these,” Peter said, forcing one down as his other arm came up to block another. But he only had two hands, and there were four tentacles, superhumanly strong. Oscorp engineering at its finest. One of them slithered around Peter’s leg, tugging him off balance, and two more wrapped around him to slam him against the wall – once, twice, three times, boneshaking strikes.

“In spite of what that insipid child Harry Osborn may think, I have no interest in you one way or another. Only my work interests me. But your presence here complicates matters,” Octavius said, sounding almost bored. “But no matter. Any evidence that I was ever here will be gone shortly either way. And as for you, Spider-Man…”

The arms that were holding him released, and Peter was tossed carelessly into the remains of the desk. He landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and as he looked up for one split second he saw Harry – but not as he was. He saw him as he’d looked on that day in this office, asking Peter to help him find Spider-Man, his eyes electric blue and his skin pale. He remembered the way Harry had trembled when he’d embraced Peter. The memory of Harry stared down at him, fair eyebrows knit together and mouth downturned.

“I suppose,” Octavius’ voice said, “I can kill two birds with one stone.”

Peter blinked and he was gone. Instead, Octavius had moved into his field of vision. He didn’t look at Peter as he stepped on – on, and not over – him on his way out of the office. He wasn’t a light man, and the metal of the harness and the arms made him even heavier. Peter cried out in pain.

“Farewell,” Octavius said as he left the room. “If I knew your family, I’d offer my condolences.”

Peter groaned, taking a moment to just breathe and to make sure nothing was broken.

“What the hell did that mean?” Peter asked himself, twisting onto his side as he pressed a hand to his ribs.

Worse than the pain in his ribs was his spider-sense screaming at him. He couldn’t figure out why – and then he opened his eyes, and saw the bomb.

Peter only barely had time to throw himself through the nearest window before the office exploded.


	8. Chapter Seven

He made it back to Forest Hills by the skin of his teeth, and by the time he got there he wasn’t alone.

There was a brilliant streak of fire through the sky, like a shooting star, and Peter cursed under his breath. This wasn’t exactly how he wanted Johnny to see him: struggling, in the dark, to pull himself over the small fence that separated the back of his aunt’s house from the street.

He only barely succeeded, falling face first down onto the gravel driveway just as Johnny touched.

“Turn that off,” he said, turning himself over with a grunt. He waved a hand loosely in the air, gesturing at Johnny’s flames. “I don’t need the neighbors talking.”

It was late, though, and Peter’s quiet street was already dark. Aunt May wasn’t home, either; she was working a night shift at the hospital and it was still hours until she’d be home.

There was a light on in his bedroom window. He didn’t remember leaving it on before he went out; it wasn’t his habit. It didn’t seem very important when he wasn’t entirely sure how he was even going to get up to his bedroom, every inch of his body aching.

“Are you stalking me now?” he asked, struggling to his feet as Johnny snuffed his flames and landed. “Or should I say again?”

“I saw you nearly let go of your webline and go splat,” Johnny said. “So yeah, I followed my boyfriend to make sure he didn’t get himself killed. I’ve been texting you all night, man. What the hell happened to you?”

“The world’s worst bowlcut,” Peter said, gripping his side. His hand came away wet with blood. “And four moving metal arms. It’s okay, it was only a little explosion.”

“A little _what_?” Johnny demanded, voice rising. “Wait – that thing, that explosion at Oscorp – you were _there_?Why the hell didn’t you call me for backup?”

“Keep it down, would you? It’s fine,” Peter said in a hushed voice. “I’m fine. We can’t have this conversation here.”

“You can barely walk,” Johnny said, reaching out to grab his arm. Peter tried not to let it show how badly he needed to hold onto him, but it was a lost cause. He latched onto him with both hands. “Jesus, Pete…”

“No, it’s okay,” Peter gritted out, clinging to Johnny to stay upright. “I’m okay. I just – I just need to lie down for like a year.”

“You can’t do that on the lawn,” Johnny said. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

Peter kept a spare key to the back door webbed to the back of the drain pipe. Johnny retrieved it and together they stumbled into Peter’s darkened kitchen. Peter leaned against the wall, panting, as Johnny fumbled for the light switch.

“My mask,” Peter said. He felt like it was clinging to his face, suffocating him. One of his lenses had been shattered during the explosion, and he’d ended up tearing the whole eye piece out and leaving it. “Can you take off my mask?”

Johnny carefully found the line of the mask and pulled it off, and then hissed when Peter’s face was revealed.

“That bad?” Peter asked.

“Let’s just say it’s a lucky thing you heal so fast,” Johnny said. “Jesus, you can barely stand. Listen, the couch is right over there -- ”

“No,” Peter croaked. “I gotta get upstairs, get the costume put away. If my aunt saw…”

“You’re one hell of a stubborn bastard, did you know that?” Johnny said. He slung Peter’s arm over his shoulder and let Peter lean most of his weight on him as he practically dragged him from the kitchen and through the living room.

Peter’s spider-sense tingled as they stumbled up the stairs.

“Wait,” Peter said. “Johnny, wait, something’s wrong –"

The door to his room flew open and there, silhouetted in the light, stood Mary Jane.

For a moment, it was like all three of them were frozen, Johnny and Peter motionless on the landing and Mary Jane with her hand over her mouth, staring at Peter, bleeding and maskless in his suit.

Peter knew, in that moment, that there was no going back from this one.

“Oh my God,” Mary Jane said, softly. Then, louder, “Oh my God!”

“Keep it down!” Johnny hissed, just as Peter croaked, “What are you doing here, Mary Jane?”

“I,” she said, and the part of Peter that he was blaming on the blood loss thought about how he’d never seen her look like that before, her mouth open and her fingers gripping his door like it was all that was keeping her upright. “I – I needed somewhere to stay tonight. My aunt’s visiting friends in Florida and I lost my key. Your aunt, she said I could wait for you. She said I could sleep in your room, if you didn’t – she said sometimes you don’t come at home at night. I just thought you were, you know, sleeping at Johnny’s. I didn’t – you’re not -- you’re bleeding.”

She said it like she couldn’t believe it.

“MJ,” Johnny said, quietly but firmly, “let me get him on the bed.”

She moved to the side unsteadily, and Johnny dragged Peter the last few steps into his room.

“What the fuck!” Mary Jane said, slamming the door behind them hard enough to rattle the frame. “Peter, what the fuck is wrong with you? You’re –”

“Freak out and yell at him later,” Johnny cut her off, grunting as Peter pulled away from him and fell, face first, onto the bed. “Help me get him lying down now.”

He ended up lying flat on his back on the bed, his head cradled in Johnny’s lap. Johnny’s hand ran restless and shaky through his hair, the other braced against his chest.

“I’m okay,” Peter said, breathing deep. “I’m okay. You okay?”

Johnny nodded furiously, eyes hot and wet. “I’m, yeah, I’m okay.”

“Okay.” Peter tried to grin up at Johnny. He said it like a promise, “If you’re okay, then I’m okay.”

Mary Jane fell to her knees in front of the bed, both of her hands fumbling for one of his. She turned his wrist over, exposing the webshooter strapped there. Her fingers trembled as she traced it, grip tight enough that Peter knew it would hurt if he were anyone else. The red of her nails matched his costume.

“That’s great for you guys, but _I’m_ not okay at all,” she said.

“Guess it’s probably too late to convince you my good friend Spider-Man lent me this for a Halloween costume, huh?” Peter said.

Mary Jane looked up at him, and he wished he hadn’t made the joke. She looked devastated.

“You’re Spider-Man,” she said, those dooming words. Peter kept his gaze locked with hers and knew she was never going to look at him the same way after tonight. Something deep in his chest ached. “How are you Spider-Man?”

“Genetically altered spider designed by my father for Oscorp bit me,” he said, too exhausted to lie. Johnny was still petting his hair, his eyes closed. Peter wanted to be the one comforting him – Peter had only been a little blown up, but Johnny looked like someone had torn his heart out.

He had forgotten how hard it was, having someone to scare. Someone who knew.

Correction: he had two people to scare now. Mary Jane was still staring at him in open disbelief.

“That’s real cute, that’s,” she broke off shakily. “No, this isn’t right. You’re just, you’re plain, boring Peter Parker. You’ve lived next door from my aunt as long as I can remember and you’re smart and shy and you like science and photography and you don’t have fun and you _hate my aunt’s tuna casserole_ , Peter, you don’t get to be Spider-Man!”

She clung to his hand, grip so tight it would have hurt anyone else. Peter stared at her, unable to come up with the words to tell her – that was all him, it was true. But the webslinging, the fast talk, the buzz of New York and the thrill of a fight, the connection of his own fist and some lowlife’s nose – that was him, too. No more, no less.

“MJ,” Johnny said, softly, an unspoken _not now_. Peter caught the wrist of the hand still pressed over his heart, just holding on.

Mary Jane’s head snapped up like she’d just remembered he was in the room. Her gaze was furious.

“That’s how he knows you,” she said. “That’s how – oh my God, it’s me. I’m the idiot. Of course that’s how he knows you, because you’re both _superheroes_ , and the whole time you’re just laughing at stupid ol’ MJ, can’t see the truth in front of her own eyes.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Johnny said, sounding miserable. Peter squeezed at his wrist, trying to say _I know_ without saying it. “I was just trying to help keep his secret…”

“Stop,” Mary Jane said, letting of Peter’s hand so she could swipe at her eyes, smudging her mascara. She looked at him again, lip trembling. “Johnny – is he going to die?”

Johnny laughed short and wet and horrible, shaking his head. “No, he – he heals. He heals fast, really fast.”

“I do,” Peter promised. “I just need a good night’s sleep, MJ. That’s all.”

“Okay,” she said, sniffing. She got to her feet, still swiping at her eyes. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

“MJ…?” Peter said, reaching for her with his free hand. She didn’t take it. She didn’t come closer at all. She moved a careful handful of steps back towards his bedroom door, her hands shaking and her eyes on Peter.

“I have to go now,” she said. “I just – I can’t do this. I have to go.”

She fumbled with the doorknob, and then she slipped through the door silently and was gone. It didn’t really hit Peter until he heard the front door slam shut and the distant roar of a motorcycle engine.

“What did I do?” Peter said, hands over his face. “Ohh, what did I do?”

“Hey, hey,” Johnny soothed. “Stop it. You didn’t – well, you got blown up, but it’s not your fault. Hey, don’t do this to yourself.”

His hand ran through Peter’s hair, again and again, his touch warm and soothing. Peter was so tired, and he ached all over, and now Mary Jane knew. Mary Jane Watson, the girl who couldn’t go five minutes without talking, knew that Spider-Man was her aunt’s next door neighbor.

“She’s going to tell someone,” he said, before he had even registered opening his mouth to speak. The words fell heavy from his lips, resigned.

“What?” Johnny said. “Who? MJ?”

“New York’s biggest gossip,” Peter said, gingerly pulling himself away from Johnny. His shoulder throbbed where it had met the pavement after a fumbled swing. He needed to sleep it off. He needed to go after Mary Jane. She didn’t understand. “Who else?”

“No, she won’t,” Johnny said. He didn’t know her, though, not like Peter did. Hadn’t spent the last five years watching her breeze in and out of the neighborhood like a redheaded hurricane. “She’s not going to say anything.” He smoothed a hand down Peter’s suit. “Come on, let’s get you out of this. It’s ruined, anyway.”

Johnny ended up curled around him, his chest pressed to Peter back and his arm wrapped warm around his waist. Every once and a while he’d shift and press a kiss to Peter’s shoulder, or against the side of his head, burying his nose in Peter’s hair.

“Don’t this to yourself,” he breathed, and his hot, dry breath ruffled Peter hair. He kissed his ear next and Peter reached up, brushing his hand over Johnny’s head, just to keep him there, braced warm and solid and real over Peter, a comforting weight.

Johnny’s grip on his waist tightened and he kissed the same spot again.

“It’s gonna be okay, Spidey,” he said. “I promise, it’s all going to be okay.”

But Peter knew, with bone deep certainty, that it wasn’t going to be.

* * *

Peter slept fitfully for most of the next day, the blinds drawn against the light as his body took the time it needed to heal itself. Johnny left in the morning, brushing his hand over Peter’s hair and kissing the top of his head, probably thinking he was still asleep.

He rose, body still aching, as the afternoon edged into evening, when he just couldn’t stay in bed longer. He splashed some water on his face, checked to make sure he didn’t look as terrible as he felt – he looked worse -- and then meandered downstairs, where he could hear May in the kitchen.

She glanced up as he entered, her gaze lingering and her expression tight lipped. Then she looked down at the cutting board, pretending she hadn’t seen whatever it was she had.

“There you are,” she said, voice barely tight at all. If Peter didn’t know her so well, he never would have caught it. “I was starting to worry.”

“Late night,” he mumbled, pulling up a seat at the table. She didn’t press the issue. In a minute, a sandwich was slid in front of him, and he picked it up gratefully, suddenly ravenous.

May sat down next to him, watching as he ate.

“I talked to Anna earlier today,” she said. “She said Mary Jane called her very upset last night and today she’s not picking up her phone.”

Dread shot through at him at the memory of Mary Jane’s face the night before – and he found the feeling was tinged with guilt, remembering her wide eyes and the way she’d clutched at his hand.

“Yeah?” he said. He took another bite and chewed carefully.

“She was supposed to stay here last night. I told her it was okay,” May said. “But she was gone when I got in. Did you see her yesterday, Peter?”

It wasn’t exactly an accusation, but it wasn’t completely devoid of one, either. Peter finished his sandwich and cleared his throat. What was one more lie?

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t see her.”

He threw himself into Spider-Man, as soon as the costume was entirely patched up and he was mostly healed. It bothered him, that Octavius had gotten away. The fight haunted him in quiet moments, remembering those cold metal arms and Octavius’ smug face.

The tech bothered him, too. The sleek silver and green make of it. It looked like what the Vulture had worn. It looked like what Harry had worn, that night. So it was just another piece of the puzzle – another guy Harry somehow had on the payroll from deep inside his cell at Ravenscroft, no matter what Octavius had said about not being one of Harry’s goons. Peter should be able to spot a liar; after all, he was one.

But Octavius wasn’t like the Vulture. Peter could tell that from the fight. Octavius was brilliant – maybe too brilliant. He wouldn’t be content to do Harry’s bidding. To take his money, sure, but not to remain under his thumb. Maybe Octavius was telling the truth and there was some other agenda at work, and Harry either thought he could control him, or was too consumed with his hatred of Peter to notice.

Hell of a choice, he thought. Either way, he needed to take Octavius down, and fast. The problem was finding him.

It was just like Mysterio. One second he was there – and kicking Peter’s ass – and the next he was gone into the ether. Peter didn’t like it. He didn’t trust it, either. People didn’t just disappear. He knew that better than most.

He’d gone back to his father’s Roosevelt lab a handful of times since he’d discovered to it, to listen to his voice and to think, sitting on the floor of the train and letting the truth wash over him. It settled him, a little bit. But it didn’t bring him any closer to figuring out where Octavius had disappeared to, and it didn’t reveal anyway to undo what had happened with him and Mary Jane.

Then there was Johnny. Peter wasn’t avoiding him, not really. He was just – busy. And so was Johnny. Jet setting maybe wasn’t so involved when Johnny could just fly himself, but he still got around. Interviews, photoshoots, shooting a commercial with the Thing; it seemed like Johnny barely had time to text, let alone to mess around on rooftops with Peter. The other day he’d told Peter about how some sunglass brand he’d never heard of before wanted to collaborate, big grin on his face.

At first it had been a relief, conducting his octopus hunt alone, but as the days went by Peter found himself more and more unsettled, and missing Johnny was a big part of that. Half the time, Peter found himself falling asleep to clips of Johnny on YouTube, soothed by the sound of his voice.

It was a relief when Johnny asked him to meet up. Dinner was cheap pizza up on the roof, and Peter felt more settled than he had in weeks.

The fact that they’d spent most of the night so far making out didn’t hurt.

It was a perfect evening. Until Johnny decided, halfway through it, to say, “Hey, have you heard from Mary Jane?”

Peter chewed, then swallowed. “No. Why?”

“I just thought you would’ve talked by now,” Johnny said, shrugging with faux nonchalance. “After what happened – I mean, I know it was kind of a shock, but things have to have cooled off by now, right? But I texted her a few times and she hasn’t replied.”

“She took off,” Peter said. “I don’t know where she went.”

“Huh,” Johnny said, frowning.

“What?” Peter asked, sucking pizza sauce moodily off his own thumb.

“Nothing. But you miss her, right?” Johnny said, wiping pizza grease from his lips on the back of his hand. Peter didn’t know which he wanted more – to kiss the taste of cheap pizza from his lips, or to not be having this conversation. “I mean, she was pretty much your best friend.”

“She’s not,” Peter said, frowning. “She’s just some girl whose aunt lives next door. I barely know her.”

Johnny didn’t look like he believed him.

“But she hasn’t talked,” he said, and Peter shot him a look, his eyebrow raised. “You said she was going to talk.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Johnny shrugged, picking up another slice of pizza. “You said, you know, Spidey’s out of the bag, when she found out. That she was going to tell people. But she hasn’t. I’ve been keeping a close eye out, and it’s not like Spider-Man’s true identity is at the top of the trending topics, so. I think you can probably trust her a little bit, you know?”

Peter opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. He shook his head, not sure what to do with the feeling in his chest, the one he didn’t want to look too close at.

“Even if that were true, it doesn’t matter. It’s better,” Peter said, “if she stays away from me.”

The problem was, he was starting to not really believe that, either.

* * *

The days went by. Peter tried to balance studying and the Bugle and everything else, as best as he could. A new billboard with Johnny on it went up in Times Square, which greatly increased the amount of time Peter spent swinging around Times Square. Oscorp yielded little when Peter returned to it, even though he’d promised Johnny he wouldn’t go alone. Doctor Octavius stayed, frustratingly, underground, and the threat of whatever it was Harry thought he was doing continued to loom.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that Spider-Man saved lives, whenever he could.

He tried not to think about Mary Jane, wherever she was and whatever she might be doing. For the most part, he succeeded, until the evening he got home and found her motorcycle parked alongside where May’s car would have been, if she wasn’t at a shift at the hospital.

Peter took the stairs two at a time. He only faltered when he swung the door open.

Mary Jane was sitting on his bed, straight-backed and obviously waiting. She was dressed down in a leather jacket and black jeans. There were red boots that perfectly matched her hair kicked off in the corner of Peter’s room, and her socks had tiny tiger faces on them.

“Your aunt let me in,” she said.

“We don’t have such a great record with that,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “What are you doing here, MJ?”

“I saw you,” she said. “I needed a while to – not think about it. But then I couldn’t. Not think about it. I looked up all these videos of you online. I saw _you_ fight.”

“Yeah?” he said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“You’re good,” she said. It didn’t sound very much like a compliment.

“I’ve got experience,” he said, tucking his hands in his pockets. He knew that didn’t make it any better. She stared at him, an accusation in her eyes, quieter than he’d ever seen her before.

He couldn’t have this conversation here, in this room where everything had gone wrong in the first place. The window was open and, impulsively, he moved towards it.

“Coming?” he asked Mary Jane over his shoulder as he slung a leg over the sill.

She clambered across the rooftop in her socks, shivering a little. Peter held out a hand for her and she shrugged him off, shooting him a look as she settled down on the roof’s ledge next to him, dangling her legs over the edge. For a long moment they just sat there, shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at the row of houses across from them.

“You’re looking better,” Mary Jane said at last.

“Like the man on fire said,” Peter drummed his fingers restless against the roof, “I heal fast.”

Mary Jane sighed, ducking her head so her long red hair swung in her face. “Who else knows?”

“Just you,” Peter said, biting at his lip. “Johnny. That’s it. Nobody else.”

“The elite club, huh?” Mary Jane snorted. “And May?”

“No,” Peter said. Then he thought about it, the way Aunt May looked at him sometimes, the tightly pressed lips and the new worry lines, the way she’d stopped asking about the bruises or where he went when he was out late hours of the night. How she knew sometimes he didn’t come home until morning. The way that had all stopped the months after Gwen’s death only to kick right back up with Spider-Man’s reappearance.

More honestly, he said, “I don’t know.”

“Wow,” Mary Jane said, nodding slowly. He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t, just sat there next to him with her shoulders hunched under her leather bomber jacket, her hands twisted in her lap.

“Did you tell Anna?” he asked, forcing the words from the twisted up knot in his chest.

Mary Jane snorted. “You didn’t tell your aunt, why should I tell mine?”

“MJ,” he said, staring at her. “I need to know.”

“Look, I know what you think about me, obviously,” Mary Jane said, swiping furiously at her eyes. “But I want to be an actress, okay, Peter? A real one, not just in the commercials for Schmendelson’s Discount Cars. You think I’m ever going to make it as a big Broadway star if I can’t keep my mouth shut?” She took a deep breath. “If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s keep a secret.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Peter said, shutting his eyes. “It wasn’t an accusation, MJ. It’s just – you’ve always been better at things than me. Talking to people. The truth. That kind of thing.”

“God,” she said after a beat. “You really don’t know me at all, huh.”

He bowed his head.

Mary Jane had worried all the lipstick from her bottom lip. She shoved her cold hands under her armpits – he wanted to wrap a companionable arm around her shoulders, but he didn’t know if it was welcome. He didn’t know if he was still allowed to be her friend. Not that he’d ever been a very good one. He didn’t exactly have a lot of experience.

“Do you remember,” she said after a beat, “that neighborhood blackout when we were kids? We must have been, I don’t know – seven, maybe? Eight? I lived with Anna for a few months then.”

He remembered. One image in particular came to mind: Uncle Ben, rummaging up all the flashlights from the house, saying with a wink, “When it’s dark, Peter – that’s when people need a light.”

He also remembered rolling his eyes at that one.

“You were seven. I was eight. Yeah,” he said, hoarse. “Yeah, I remember.”

She swiped at her eyes again. “I remember you being so fearless when all the other kids were freaking out. It made me feel less afraid. So I guess it’s not a complete surprise. You always worried about other people more than yourself.”

“Nah,” Peter said, shaking his head. “Nah, that was my uncle, that wasn’t me.”

“You put on a stupid suit and you swing all over the city, saving people,” Mary Jane countered. “Fighting giant lizards and electric men. That’s you, not your uncle.” She sniffed. “Do you know what I’ve dreamed every night since I saw you in that costume?”

“No,” he said.

“You, falling from some stupid web,” she said. “You getting killed by some other guy in a costume. You, a pancake on the pavement. Peter – I’ve known you forever. Every time I came to stay with my aunt, I thought, oh, Peter Parker will be there, right next door. You’re supposed to be a constant, and now I find out you’re this – you’re Spider-Man, and it scares the hell out of me.”

“It scares me, too,” Peter said.

“Really?” she asked.

He thought about it for a moment, and forced himself to be honest with her, the way he was honest with Gwen, sitting together on the bleachers what felt like a lifetime ago.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No.”

He didn’t know if being afraid for himself was something he really knew how to do, anymore.

“Yeah,” Mary Jane said, sniffling. “I didn’t think so.”

“I’m good, MJ,” he said. “I’ve got you and I’ve got Johnny and I can lift a bus over my head. What more does a guy need, huh?”

“You’re a superhero and you’re dating a celebrity and you still live at home with your aunt,” Mary Jane sniped, but the corner of her mouth was twitching, and some of the stiffness had left her shoulders. She tipped her head back to stare up at the sky. “Peter Parker, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

“Stranger things have happened,” he said, dusting off his jeans as he climbed to his feet. “Hey, you know what?”

Mary Jane looked up at him suspiciously, like she expected Peter to throw her off the rooftop into her aunt’s prized begonias.

“What?” she asked.

He held out a hand.

“Mary Jane Watson,” he said, unable to help the grin spreading across his face. “Let me take you flying.”

* * *

“I don’t know about this,” Mary Jane yelled over the rush of the wind, her arms wound around Peter’s neck in a stranglehold. They were standing on the very edge of the Flatiron, almost three hundred feet above the street. Peter figured he’d ease her in slow. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea!”

“What are you, scared?” he teased. He shifted his hold on her, wrapping his arm briefly around her shoulders and burying his hand in her wild curls. “I’m not going to drop you. Scout’s honor.”

Then, before she could truthfully retort that he’d never been a scout, he wrapped one arm securely around her waist, fired a webline, and swung them both out.

He remembered the first time he’d taken Gwen swinging, him with the three long slashes the Lizard had given him still bleeding sluggishly across his chest and her in her robe and her white dress. _Let’s get out of here_ , he’d said, chucking his knuckles under her chin and knocking his forehead against hers, and she’d shaken her head no. _Yes_ , he’d insisted, _yes, yes._

“No. If my parents see me leaving, I’m dead,” she’d said.

“Your parents aren’t going to see you leave,” he’d said. He remembered the way the grin had stretched wide across his face, the way her eyes had glimmered. She’d wanted it as much as him.

They’d clambered onto her fire escape together, him helping her over the windowsill, and then he’d brought her in close, savoring the warmth of her body through her thin clothes, still love drunk on her kiss.

“Hold on tight,” he’d told her, and she’d nodded, eyes as big and bright as the moon overhead. She’d felt so right, held tightly against his side, and he had never heard anything as musical as her delighted gasp as they swung into the air. She’d loved it.

Mary Jane screamed so loud it drowned out all the noise of the city.

“Having fun?” he yelled. He shot off another strand of webbing, flipping them up and over.

“I changed my mind!” Mary Jane shouted. “I changed my mind! Oh my God!”

There was a streak of fire in the sky. Mary Jane gasped as he swept down to join them.

“Hey,” Johnny said, grinning through the flames. He gave Mary Jane a jaunty little wave. “Are you throwing a party without me? Not cool.”

“I prefer things hot, thanks,” Peter replied, as best as he could with Mary Jane’s stranglehold on his neck. “I thought you knew that.”

“Don’t flirt right now!” Mary Jane said, making a move like she wanted to slap his shoulder before realizing she’d have to let go of him to do that.

“If not now, then when?” Peter said, swinging them up higher. A lock of Mary Jane’s red hair hit him straight in the right eye lens. “It’s a beautiful night! Took you long enough to get here, Torch. I texted you ages ago.”

“I was finishing up a shoot. Did you make up?” Johnny said, flying leisurely alongside them. He flipped onto his back, his arms crossed behind his head. Even on fire, he was gorgeous. “Are we all friends again now?”

“If he doesn’t drop me!” Mary Jane said, her sharp nails digging into Peter’s shoulders through his costume.

“Hold on,” Peter told her. “I’m going to do a loop.”

“My hair!” she shouted.

He’d barely set Mary Jane down on the nearest rooftop before Johnny was swooping down. He extinguished his flames and grabbed her up in a hug, spinning her around in a circle. She shrieked and he whooped and Peter just stood back, watching them from behind the safety of his mask.

“We all good now?” Johnny asked with a grin as he set her back down on her feet.

“We’re good,” she said breathlessly, twining her arms around his neck. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too. Chilly?” he asked.

“This jacket was _not_ made for – whatever it is he does. I am never doing that again,” Mary Jane said, snuggling up close to Johnny.

“Flying is better than swinging, got it,” Johnny said as he rested his chin on top of her head and stuck his tongue out at Peter.

If it weren’t for the mask, Peter would’ve mimed biting it.

Mary Jane tugged herself out of Johnny’s arms and took a step back, giving them both an appraising look. She gestured between him and Peter. “You know, this is making a lot more sense now.”

“Am I being insulted?” Peter asked.

“I mean, not because you look like your aunt buys all your clothes at Target,” Mary Jane said, “because you make that look kind of cute, actually –”

“I’m being insulted,” Peter said.

“She’s not wrong,” Johnny said.

“But like, your Bugle story, it wasn’t _that_ good,” Mary Jane said. “Do you just make stuff up as you go along, tiger?” Before Peter could open his mouth to come up with a lie good enough to defend himself there, Mary Jane whirled in a circle, pointing first at Johnny and then at Peter. “How do you guys do it, though? Like, when it comes out, are you going to be Johnny Storm and Spider-Man, sitting in a tree, or Johnny Storm and Peter Parker, average everyday citizen?”

Johnny frowned. “I don’t think I understand the question.”

“You lost me at ‘sitting in a tree’,” Peter admitted.

Mary Jane crossed her arms, pointing a finger at each of them. “You’re a celebrity. And you’re Spider-Man. You’re both _famous_. You don’t think at some point someone’s going to figure it out? That you’re together?”

Johnny looked at Peter. From behind the mask, Peter stared back.

“Uh,” Johnny said, scratching the back of his neck as he glanced away, down over the side of the building. “I mean, of course we’ve thought about it…”

“So what happens when that story breaks?” Mary Jane asked. She looked over at Peter. “Which version of you is going to be with him? Or are you going to, you know…” She touched her own face. “You could just take the mask off.”

The pit of Peter stomach went cold first. The feeling spread to the rest of him when Johnny gave him a quick, hopeful look; he masked it, but not quick enough.

Mary Jane seemed to notice the abrupt change in the atmosphere. She let her arms fall to her side, scuffing the heel of her boot against the rooftop.

“I’m just saying,” she said. “You should think about it.”

Silence reigned heavily for a moment, and then Peter said, “Come on, MJ. I should take you back.”

“Sorry for the mood ruiner,” Mary Jane said as she took the hand Peter held out to her. “It’s just, you guys are my friends. I want you to be okay.”

“We’re going to be fine,” Peter told her, but he was looking at Johnny. “I promise you.”

Johnny nodded, his hands tucked into his pockets.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“You’d better,” Peter said.

He wrapped an arm around Mary Jane’s waist and swung them both off into the night.

* * *

Johnny drove out to Forest Hills, a ride that had him tapping his foot and drumming his fingers the whole way. He loved cars, he still did – but waiting in traffic in the middle of New York had lost all its appeal long before Johnny could fly under his own power.

He wanted to see Peter, though, and he wanted to see him as Peter, not Spider-Man. As famous as the Human Torch was already, Johnny Storm could still walk down a quiet residential street and not be spotted so long as he stayed out of uniform, dressing down in jeans and a jacket he didn’t need in spite of the cold weather.

He parked the car on another block and then slipped around to Peter’s.

The windows of Peter’s house were dark; the only light on was the porchlight, a soft amber glow against the early evening gloom.

“He’s not home,” a voice called out.

Johnny swiveled around to see Mary Jane sitting on her aunt’s porch swing, dressed down in a big, faded hoodie and zebra-print leggings. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in a messy bun; a pair of glasses perched on the edge of her nose. There was a lit cigarette dangling from the fingers of one hand, her cellphone held in the other. She raised the hand holding the cell phone in a loose wave.

“He’s off, you know,” she said, rocking her hand from side to side. She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Thwip thwip.”

She didn’t seem happy about it.

Johnny hesitated a second, then took the steps two at a time up to her porch. “How do you know?”

Mary Jane snorted, taking a long drag of her cigarette. She obligingly made room for him on the porch swing, and he took it without hesitation. “Twitter. He’s over by the Whitney, if you want to light up.”

Johnny thought about it, for a moment, even as Mary Jane’s shoulders hunched closer to her ears. She shivered a little as he leaned in, and he realized he’d let his body heat flare, the idea of Peter in danger fraying at his control. He reined it back in, exhaling, so it was less of a shock in comparison to the chill in the air.

“Is he winning?” he asked.

“Yep,” she said tersely, popping the ‘p’. “So far, anyway. You smoke?” She held out the cigarette.

“Only literally,” he said, making a face. “My sister would kill me.”

“Ugh, I know,” Mary Jane said, listing dramatically to the side. “My aunt’s going to smell it on my hair and read me the riot act. It’s not a habit, it’s just – sometimes, when I’m stressed out, you know?”

“What’s got you so stressed out?” Johnny asked.

Mary Jane raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him. With a flick of her thumb, she’d unlocked her phone, and then there was a blurry ten second video of Peter slamming his fist into a costumed bad guy being shoved in Johnny’s face.

No, not Peter. Spider-Man.

“What the hell do you think?” Mary Jane asked. Johnny had to look away.

“He’s, you know,” he said, swallowing hard. His throat felt tight and he didn’t quite know why. “He’s really strong.”

“Yeah,” Mary Jane said, staring across the street. “So are the rest of these guys.”

“He’s stronger,” Johnny said.

“Sure,” Mary Jane said. “Until somebody even stronger than that comes around. I know how this game goes. I’m not an idiot – I just play one on TV.” She stubbed out her cigarette violently. “You know what happened to his girlfriend, right?”

Johnny looked away, catching his lip between his teeth.

“Yeah,” he admitted, bouncing one knee up and down. “I know.”

“I met her, you know,” Mary Jane said, after a long moment.

That made him turn back towards her, unable to help the question written all over his face. Somehow, in his mind, Gwen Stacy was trapped in amber, a beautiful, benevolent face smiling up at him from his computer screen. Someone who only belonged to Peter’s memory.

That Mary Jane had met her made her somehow realer. Johnny felt his throat get tight, remembering how Peter had looked in those photos, his arm around her, his gaze on her. Anyone could see he’d been in love. Really, honestly in love.

“I mean, not really,” Mary Jane said, taking another long drag on her cigarette. “Only for a second. She was --”

“Beautiful?” Johnny said, unable to stop himself.

Mary Jane quirked an eyebrow.

“I was going to say ‘nice’, but – okay. Yeah.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “She was beautiful, too.”

Johnny swallowed hard. He’d seen the pictures, so it wasn’t like he hadn’t known. It wasn’t like it would have better if she hadn’t been beautiful, not like he could say to himself, _your boyfriend’s still in love with her, and she’s dead, but at least she wasn’t that pretty or anything._

He bit the side of his own cheek. He was being unfair. Worse, he was being jealous. Being in love always did this to him. He’d just never had to be jealous of a dead girl before. It made him disgusted with himself, and what made him feel worse was imagining how disgusted Peter would be with him, if he ever found out.

“Well,” Mary Jane said, getting to her feet. “I gotta go get changed to meet up with my aunt. Tell the conquering hero good job with the punching, will you?”

Johnny watched her slip inside with a pang, feeling lost and unsettled. He didn’t want to be alone.

He didn’t have to wait long for Peter. Forty minutes later and he came strolling down the street, his hands tucked into his pockets and a swagger in his step, looking nothing like someone who’d been fighting less than an hour before.

His eyes lit up when he saw Johnny.

“Hey,” he said, jogging up the steps to meet him. His hands came up to rest at Johnny’s elbows as he leaned forward, giving him a quick, welcoming kiss. “What’re you doing here?”

“I had the afternoon off,” Johnny said. “I picked you over tinkering with my new car, and you were too busy doing Spider-Man stuff to care.”

“Shh,” Peter said, even though there was no one around but them to hear. He pulled Johnny inside the house, then spun around and pressed him up against the wall, quick and hard enough to rattle the framed family photos that hung next to him.

“That’s more like it,” Johnny said, grinning.

“You were waiting for me?” Peter asked. His hands curled at Johnny’s hips, fingers hooking into his beltloops. His eyes were dark and hungry, fixed on Johnny’s lips. “Come here.”

They kissed for a long moment, Peter all consuming, his tongue thrusting roughly into Johnny’s mouth. He touched him with a sort of nervous energy, like the fight had only wound him up. Round one, and now he was looking for more.

“I saw you fighting,” Johnny said, arching against Peter.

“Yeah?” Peter asked. “What’d you think? Impressed?”

“I think,” Johnny said, “that we should take this upstairs so I can show you just how impressed with you I am.”

* * *

“Hey, I made you something,” Peter said, grinning. He got up off the bed and Johnny, naked, rolled over to watch him as he fished his boxers off the floor and pulled them back on, then headed over to his desk. He rummaged around in the drawer for a moment before he made a small noise of triumph, turning around and waggling his eyebrows at Johnny.

“Close your eyes,” he said, “and hold out your hand.”

“You don’t have to trick me to make me touch your dick,” Johnny said and Peter snorted.

“I’m being serious here,” he said. “Come on, close your eyes.”

With a longsuffering sigh, Johnny did as Peter asked, sitting up and offering his cupped palms forward. He felt Peter moving as he knelt next to him on the bed, and then something feather light and tiny was dropped into Johnny’s waiting hands.

He opened his eyes.

It was a small disc, red plastic and silver metal, around the size of a quarter. It had little sharp indents at the side, almost like legs. He from it up at Peter, his eyebrows drawn together.

“It’s – what, did you get me a broach?” he asked. “A tie pin?”

“Isn’t jewelry more an anniversary sort of thing?” Peter said nonchalantly, and a fierce surge of want rose up in Johnny. He wanted there to be an anniversary. He wanted there to be many anniversaries. He wanted to give Peter, five, ten years down the line, an expensive, flashy car, something as fast and agile as Spider-Man, just to watch the look on his face. But Peter was shaking his head, gesturing at the little disc in Johnny’s hands. “No, listen, I’ve been working on these. I had the idea a while back, but then I just…” He glanced away, a shadow falling over his face.

And then Gwen died, Johnny realized but didn’t say. Gwen died, and some part of Peter went with her. Johnny could almost see where it had used to be, like Peter was supposed to be one of those thousand piece puzzles Johnny’s dad had liked. Nine hundred and ninety nine pieces were there, but there was still a hole in the middle.

Peter cleared his throat, tapping at the little disc still in Johnny’s hands. “I’ve been calling them spider-tracers.”

“Yeah?” Johnny asked, holding it up between two careful fingers. “What does it do? Trace spiders?”

Peter snorted.

“Funny guy,” he said. “Remember I told you about my spider-sense? How it makes the whole world feel sometimes like I’m in the middle of a web, and when something goes down, I feel it. Some strand gets plucked on the edge of the web and it reverberates back to me.”

“Your magic danger sense,” Johnny said. “I remember.”

“I’m ignoring that,” Peter said. “I wanted to build something that would let me _use_ it, not just react to it. Tap into the signal. I built these to do that. The idea is if I tag someone with one of them, I can use it to follow them later.”

“Like a tracking device, but just for you and your special sense. A bug shaped like a bug,” Johnny said, turning it over. “Cool.”

“Shaped like an arachnid, technically,” Peter said. He stretched out next to Johnny. “That one’s special, though.”

“Oh yeah?” Johnny asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Peter grinned up at him. “Yeah. See, this one’s just for you. Special signal. If you ever need me, you squeeze it – just like that – and I’ll feel it. And I’ll come for you.”

Johnny’s throat felt tight. He turned over the tiny little spider-tracer in his fingers. He should have been happy. Spider-Man – Peter, his boyfriend – had made this for him. A special signal, just for him. The Spider-Signal, he thought, like they were a version of Commissioner Gordon and Batman who also had sex. He should’ve been ecstatic, over the moon. He’d just been daydreaming about anniversary presents, and now Peter was telling him that if Johnny ever needed him, he’d come running, making special versions of his inventions for him.

“You know I can take care of myself, right?” he said.

Peter frowned.

“Yeah,” he said, but he said it slowly, like he wasn’t sure what Johnny was getting at. Or maybe like he didn’t really believe it. Anger sparked in Johnny. “Of course you can, you can, you know, do your whole light on fire thing.”

“My whole light on fire thing,” Johnny said, snorting. He sat up, pulling away from Peter. “Right, because that’s all I can do.”

It wasn’t Peter’s fault – he didn’t know about the whole year Johnny had spent on that military base, hidden away from the rest of the world, learning how to burn hotter, fly faster. Target practice, obstacle courses, precision and agility, his handlers marking things off on their clipboards while his dad watched with his worried, tired eyes. It wasn’t Peter’s fault he didn’t know, because Johnny hadn’t told him. Still, it stung. Johnny had worked for his powers, harder than he’d ever worked before, and Peter was treating him like he was just an overgrown box of matches.

The frown line between Peter’s brows deepened, and it reminded Johnny of the look he used to wear when they’d first met. He’d try to cover it up, pasting on half-smiles and nonchalance, but when he didn’t realize anyone was looking, his face fell back into that stormy expression, as serious and closed off as a stone.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Peter asked, moving closer, getting into Johnny’s space. His hand settled hot on Johnny’s knee. “What’s wrong?”

“Why don’t you ever call me for backup?” Johnny asked.

“What are you talking about?” Peter asked.

“You said I could use this to call you if I ever needed you,” Johnny said, holding up the spider-tracer. “But what about if you need me? The fight today, you could’ve called me. I could’ve helped.”

“The fight today was a cakewalk,” Peter said, shaking his head. “Couple of armed robbers. I could’ve handled it with my hands tied behind my back. Tapping you in would’ve been overkill.”

“And when you broke into Oscorp?” Johnny asked. “When you got yourself blown up?”

Peter opened his mouth, then hesitated. After a second, he said, “I didn’t know that was going to happen. If I had –”

“What?” Johnny said. “You would’ve called me? Really? Look me in the eyes and tell me that.”

Peter looked up with those big brown doe eyes, and then he looked away.

“You don’t like the spider-tracer,” he said tersely. “Alright, whatever, it’s fine –”

“It’s not about the spider-tracer!” Johnny said. “You think I don’t know that you go out on your own and you do all these dangerous things? I know you’ve been looking for Doctor Octavius and that guy who tried to drown you in the river the night I fished you out. Don’t lie, I _know_ you are. I could help you, if you’d let me!” He leaned in close, his bare shoulder pressed to Peter, and raised a hand to his face, tilting it his way. “Let me help you. I wanna protect you, too.”

Peter stared back at him, wearing that one expression, like he’d shut down on the inside and walled a part of himself off.

“Some things…” he said. “Some things I have to do on my own.”

Johnny’s throat burned.

“Unbelievable,” he said, pushing Peter away as he climbed off the bed.

“What?” Peter asked, following after him. “Johnny, what, what I’d do?”

“You’re smart, right?” Johnny said, fishing his boxers from the floor and pulling them on. “You should be able to figure it out.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter asked, grabbing for Johnny’s elbow. Johnny shook him off.

“I’m not Gwen,” he bit out, grabbing his jeans from the floor.

Silence fell. Peter seemed to freeze where he stood, an unreadable emotion on his face. Regret swept through Johnny, cold the way he couldn’t feel anymore.

He’d never said her name out loud to Peter before.

“How did you –?” Peter said, so quietly Johnny barely heard the words – but then maybe that was his blood pounding in his own ears, his face heating up.

“Forget it,” he said, roughly pulling his jeans back on. “Just – forget I said that.”

His shirt had ended up tossed over the back of Peter’s desk chair. He reached for it, and Peter’s hand shot out so fast Johnny didn’t even see it. The curl of Peter’s fingers around his wrist felt hot as a brand.

“How am I supposed to do that?” Peter asked, still with that strange look on his face. “You think you can just say that and – and… You think you can just…”

He trailed off, like he couldn’t even get the words out. Johnny flexed his hand and Peter’s grip tightened.

“Let go of me,” Johnny said.

Peter looked down at his hand, and slowly let go. He took a step backwards.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough and apologetic. Guilt twinged through Johnny, and he hated it.

“It’s fine. You didn’t hurt me,” Johnny said, pulling his shirt on. “Just – I can’t do this right now.”

He pulled his shirt on and opened the bedroom door. Peter followed him down the stairs, pulling on his own pants as he went. The heat of him was prickly and anxious.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Johnny said as he reached the landing, heading for the door. “Out. Away. I need to blow off some steam.”

Peter got in front of him, standing between him and the front door with his hands at Johnny’s shoulders.

“Johnny, please,” he said. “Please, just let me explain. Okay? If something happened to you…”

“You know I’ve actually been to another universe, right?” Johnny said. “Twice? I have powers, too. I’ve seen a lot, Peter. What you do doesn’t scare me, not anymore. And I don’t know why you can’t just get that through your – “

“Because I love you!” Peter shouted. “Alright? I love you.”

Johnny froze. It took him a moment to remember how to breathe. Spider-Man – Peter – telling him he loved him was everything he wanted, and it was happening in a way that Johnny had never imagined, and never wanted.

He was shaking, and he didn’t want to be. He wanted to say it back. He wanted to kiss Peter. He wanted, more than a little bit, to punch him in the face.

“So because you love me,” he said, “you get to make all my decisions for me?”

“If something happened to you,” Peter said, his voice rising dangerously. “If anything happened to you, and it was my fault – I don’t know what I would do, okay? I couldn’t handle it. I _can’t_ do that again.”

“Don’t you think I feel the same?” Johnny said. “What if something happens to _you_ and it’s my fault, because I wasn’t there, because you wouldn’t let me be there –”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Peter said, cutting him off. “You have no idea what that’s like, Johnny. You’ve got no idea.”

It was like getting punched in the stomach. It was like seeing his dad on the floor of the compound all over again. For one second, he thought he might cry, and then anger rose up in him instead.

“You’re not the only one who has ever had someone they love die in front of them!” Johnny said, hot eyed and furious. He could feel himself heating up, the sparks threatening to spill from his skin and his lips. “Do you even understand that?”

“I can’t,” Peter said. He leveled a hand at him, a cutting gesture. Conversation over, at least in Peter’s book. “I _can’t_ , Johnny.”

Johnny shouldered past him with a frustrated noise, so angry that he was shaking with it. All his fire was warring inside him to come out; Johnny, with all the control he was capable of, swallowed it back down.

“I want to be with you,” he said, stopping with his hand on the front door’s knob. “And I get that you want to protect me. I do get it. And I know. I know what happened – I know that it happened. But you have to let me protect you, too. That’s how this works.”

Peter was quiet for a moment, and then he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

Johnny swallowed hard.

“Fine. Call me when you get your head out of your ass,” he said, slamming the door behind him as he left.

He told himself he wasn’t going to look back, and he almost made it. He had to, though. He had to look and see if Peter was coming after him, or if he’d disappeared back inside his house to hole up in his spider-cave of a bedroom and brood.

Peter had done neither. He was standing exactly where Johnny had left him, still as a statue through the glass of his front door, his face unreadable.

Untouchable. Always.

“Forget it,” Johnny told himself, shaking his head and blinking hard. “Just forget it.”

His throat burned as he turned and walked away.

* * *

Johnny had planned to head down to the garage he’d built into Baxter when they’d moved back into it. It was the playground he’d always dreamed about, a wide open space all his that he could fill with all the projects he’d ever imagined and never had the space for, competing for space in his old garage with his dad’s BMW. Working on his cars had always centered him, made him feel like he was good at something after all. He’d always liked building.

Or maybe, he thought, frustrated, his eyes still hot and itchy no matter how many times he blinked them, he’d go down there and set things on fire until he felt better, or until Peter got over himself.

Yeah, he thought. That would happen. Maybe when hell froze over.

He headed to his room first, to change out of the clothes Peter had taken off of him just hours before, and into something that wouldn’t matter if it got covered in experimental engine fuel, when he saw that the door to what Sue had dubbed her office was open.

He hesitated, and then pushed the door open further. Sue was inside, bent over something on the desk. She didn’t look up; she was wearing her earbuds.

Johnny raised his knuckles and knocked, twice, on the door.

A pause – so she had seen him, then, and chosen not to react – and then Sue removed her earbuds.

“Oh,” she said. “Johnny. Hi.”

“Hey,” he said, leaning on the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“You know,” she said, a clipped edge to her voice. She turned her gaze back down to what she was reading. “Just paperwork. Licenses, going over potential new designs for the team’s new uniforms, that kind of thing. You’d probably know about it if you had showed up for today’s meeting.”

“Shit,” Johnny said. “Was that today? I totally forgot.”

“I noticed,” Sue said.

“Listen, Sue, I’m sorry,” Johnny said, moving into the room. “I just spaced, okay? I’ll remember the next one, I promise.”

“You’ve missed the last three,” Sue said, terse.

Johnny thought back, and realized with a guilty flash that it was true, and he had, preoccupied with other things. Peter, mostly.

“Oh,” he said. And then, even though he knew it wasn’t good enough. “Sorry. Look, Sue, I really didn’t mean to. I’ll make it to the next one. All of the next ones. I – I can arrange them, or…”

He trailed off, unsure what he could do to make it better.

“You know, you were the one who wanted this team,” Sue said after a long, tense moment. “You were the one who wanted to use our powers for – this. Reed and I, we were happy at Central City, and Ben –”

“At least now he’s ugly in natural sunlight,” Johnny bit out. He immediately regretted it. Sue just stared at him, her face impassive and her eyes unreadable.

The Invisible Woman. What a joke – Johnny had been invisible to her for years, and she’d been unreadable for just as long. He bit the inside of his cheek, turning his face away. He felt hot with shame. He wished it was with fire instead.

“ _You_ wanted this,” Sue said. “You were the one who pushed for it.”

“I _do_ want it,” Johnny said, curling his hands into loose fists. He thought about Peter, standing tall on top of the world, of the way he felt when he was up there with him. “These powers – they don’t have to be a curse. We don’t have to let them. We can help people, Sue.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Sue asked. “Because to me it seems like we’re not really helping anybody but ourselves. It’s fine, being on the covers of magazines and doing television interviews, but if I wanted to be the face of modern threat management, we could’ve stayed with the military.”

Johnny flinched. He pushed his hands into his pockets and said, “You’re making it sound like something it’s not.”

“And Reed hides all day away in his lab and Ben’s been turned into a cross between a joke and the mascot for some sports team, and you –” she cut herself off, taking a breath as she pushed her chair back, rising suddenly.

When she went to the windows, Johnny followed after her.

“It’s just that this isn’t what I thought it would be,” Sue said, looking down at New York. “I don’t think this is what Dad would have wanted from us.”

It would have hurt on any day, Johnny knew that, but the fight with Peter was still rattling around in his head, and he didn’t need the memory thrust on him, of kneeling over his father as he died, he and Sue both begging him to stay. It was burned into Johnny’s memory, the way his father’s skin had blistered and cracked following Victor’s attack, and the deep, rumbling timbre of his voice.

His father’s voice had used to soothe him as a little kid, as deep and sure as a thunderstorm. The last thing he’d ever said to Johnny and Sue was to take care of each other.

Johnny swallowed hard.

“Sue, please,” he said. “I’m – okay, I’ve been neglecting the team a little, but I’ll fix it. Let me fix it. It’s gonna be okay, Sue.”

“You always do this,” Sue said, her voice flat and cold. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Johnny said. “Do what, Sue?”

“Pull away!” Sue exploded. Her desk screeched as it was shoved a foot across the floor by an invisible force field. Her chair toppled over. Her hair flew around her face, manipulated by some invisible energy. “Every time you meet someone you like better than us!”

That stung, almost worse than if her forcefield had hit him instead of the desk. Johnny took a step back like it had.

“What does _that_ mean?” he asked.

Sue breathed in sharply, glancing down at the floor. The desk dragged itself back into its original position.

“Nothing,” she said. “Never mind.”

“No,” Johnny said, looking at the new scuff marks on the floor. “Come on. What did that mean? It – you’re my sister. You guys, Reed and Ben, you’re my family.”

“It’s Spider-Man, isn’t it,” Sue said, voice flat, still staring at the floor, like she’d find the answer in the tiles. Numbers, patterns. Johnny didn’t arrange himself neatly into one, and so she couldn’t understand him.

Johnny hesitated, a split second too long, and Sue snorted and turned away from him.

“Sue, don’t,” he said. “It’s – yeah, okay. I’ve been seeing Spider-Man. I was going to tell you.”

“Right. Before or after the wedding?” she said.

“It’s new,” Johnny said. “It’s – I’ve never met anybody like him. I love him, Sue.”

“You’re talking to me like I never heard you do the whole Johnny’s got a new boyfriend routine to Dad,” Sue said.

“That was different,” Johnny said stiffly. He didn’t know that he could explain to her _how_ , but he wasn’t the same person he’d been then, fighting with their dad over boys, and the Toyota, and his wanting to leave Baxter, so smothered by this place and all the people in it. Out there, beyond these walls, there had been a whole different world, one where boys who didn’t wear lab coats never said things like _you’re only here because you’re Dr. Storm’s kid._

But nobody had ever accused Sue of that.

“He’s different,” Johnny said. “ _I’m_ different now.”

“Because of your powers,” Sue said. Her voice was flat, devoid of intonation, but the way she said it spoke volumes.

“They’re not going away!” Johnny said. “Our powers! Or our – our _aggressively abnormal physical conditions_ , fine, I can say it your way. They’re not going away. This is who we are now. The Human Torch is who I want to be.”

“It wasn’t my decision,” Sue said. “None of it. You, Reed, and Victor, you went to Planet Zero, and I just tried to bring you back. Maybe I’m tired of trying to bring you back.”

“That’s what you think you’ve been doing, huh?” Johnny said, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Fine. You don’t want to bring me back anymore, then I’m gone. Flame on.”

The flames sprang from his skin and spilled from his lips, finally free. They smoldered and flared, and did nothing to burn away the jumble of emotions that threatened to choke him if he didn’t get out of here.

“Johnny!” Sue shouted as he burned through a window and shot up into the sky, but within seconds, he was high enough that he couldn’t hear her anymore.


	9. Chapter Eight

Johnny flew in circles around the city until the anger cooled, and then he landed and found himself walking, mostly aimlessly. Everything kept echoing around in his head. The fight with Peter. The fight with Sue.

How did he always mess everything up?

The park seemed as good a place to brood as any. As a bonus, everywhere Johnny looked there seemed to be happy couples, strolling side by side, holding hands, not having fights because one of them regularly went after people who could kill him and wouldn’t ever trust him to help.

He’d have been lying if he’d said a big part of his brooding wasn’t over imagining Spider-Man, swinging down, all apologies, and maybe with flowers as long as Johnny was dreaming. That was all it was, though – a daydream, and one Johnny didn’t even feel he deserved.

He shouldn’t have brought up Gwen. He’d never even met her, even if sometimes he felt like he had, the way her loss weighed so heavily on Peter.

He eschewed the couples sunbathing and picnicking, and headed deep into the park, until he found himself on a path that was deserted. He kicked a pebble, breathing out slow. He wasn’t going to apologize. Not when Peter kept throwing himself headlong into danger without thinking about how Johnny felt about that. Not when Peter was determined to keep him at an arm’s length when they could be doing this together.

He could make it up to Sue, though. Head to her favorite supermarket, get her something she liked for dinner, something she wouldn’t go out of her way to get for herself. Try to make her understand that he felt like he fit, when he was with Peter. He’d been searching for that feeling all his life.

Too bad nobody had sent Peter that memo.

He scuffed at the ground with the heel of his shoe, watching a squirrel skitter up a tree. There wasn’t any point. Sue just didn’t understand, and Peter just refused to. Johnny Storm, always on the outside, looking in.

“Excuse me,” someone said from behind him. “Are you the Human Torch?”

“Sorry,” Johnny said, glancing over his shoulder. The man who’d asked was on the older side, wearing a tan trench coat and a matching hat. From the look of him Johnny figured he probably wanted something signed or singed for his grandkids. “I’m having kind of a rough day. No autographs.”

“Oh, no, no,” said the man. “I’d never bother you for something so trivial! But you do fight crime, don’t you? Or is that only for the cameras?”

Johnny bristled; it was far from the first time someone had made that accusation, but hearing it in person was a little different than reading it at the bottom of some youtube video’s comments.

“Yeah,” he said, turning to face him completely. “I fight crime. Why, old timer? You got something to report?”

“Why, yes,” said the main. His hands fell to the buckle of his coat, and before Johnny could tell him he _really_ wasn’t interested in what the guy had underneath there, the coat fell, revealing a sleek metal harness wrapped around his upper body and four coiled metal arms attached to it. Johnny recognized them from Peter’s description. “I’d like to report a kidnapping.”

One of the arms lashed out, but Johnny was quicker, throwing himself out of the way.

“Oh, wrong day, old man,” he said. He might’ve struck out fighting with both his boyfriend and his sister, but this guy was more than fair game, and Johnny needed a win.

This was his chance to prove to Peter that he could take care of himself just fine. He’d take down Doctor Octavius all on his own and then he’d drag him by those metal arms all the way to Peter’s doorstep, dump him there and say, _see? Not only am I a superhero too, but I’m better at it than you._

The real Peter wasn’t likely to grovel and beg Johnny to take him back while talking about how strong and impressive he was, but he could still imagine it.

He spun around, flames at the ready, only to come face to fishbowl with a towering figure in a green cape.

“Sleep,” said the man, holding out one hand.

The world narrowed and darkened as Johnny crumpled to the ground.

* * *

Peter sat, staring at his cellphone. He had his text messages with Johnny opening, and he was staring at it like sheer force of will alone would get Johnny to message him, to say something first. Some stupid joke, some string of emoji or a selfie, anything, just an opening. So Peter could say it.

He should have gone after him. He knew he should have.

His thumb hesitated over “I”, the beginning of “I’m sorry,” but somehow he couldn’t make himself touch the screen.

He’d had this argument before, was the thing. He knew how it ended now.

He knew Johnny wasn’t defenseless, but Gwen hadn’t been, either. She’d always been the smartest person in the room. She’d saved all of New York by staying at Oscorp when Connors had been coming for the serum, she’d run a police car into Electro and reset the power grid and, in the end, she’d still died.

He tossed his phone down on the bed and raised his hand to his face, rubbing at his forehead. Everything felt jumbled up. He didn’t know how to make Johnny understand. Peter couldn’t do this again. He just couldn’t.

Desperate for some kind of distraction to filter out the noise in his head, he flicked on his television and laid down on the bed, picking his abandoned phone back up.

Johnny stared back at him from his lockscreen. It was the picture he’d taken on New Year’s Eve, right before the clock had struck midnight, standing on that roof with his hands lit up and what had felt like all of New York laid out behind him. Peter’s eyes itched; he raised a hand to rub at them.

His camera roll was practically all pictures of Johnny. Johnny at the top of the Empire State Building, his arms flung wide, in the middle of yelling, “New York City, baby!”, and Johnny at Rockefeller Center, on a cold day where Peter remembered the snowflakes melting before they’d ever touched Johnny’s skin. Johnny and Mary Jane, caught frozen in time in the middle of a war over the last of Johnny’s fries. A sleepy selfie, his head down on Johnny’s shoulder.

Peter spent a long time just staring at one photo of Johnny smiling for the camera, his eyes soft. Peter closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

“Just do it,” he told himself as he pulled up Johnny’s number and pressed the call button, drumming his fingers impatiently against his knee as Johnny’s phone rang and rang.

A breaking news report made him look up, even as Johnny’s voice told him leave a message – _”flame on!”_ \-- and the machine beeped. His eyebrows furrowed as the scene on his television screen unfolded. The phone slipped from his hand, falling from the bed and clattering to the floor.

There had been a breakout at Ravenscroft.

“Harry,” he said, his voice hoarse. Something inside him had gone numb.

His phone rang and he grabbed for it, blindly answering the call and bringing it up to his ear.

“Johnny,” he said. “Listen, everything I said, it doesn’t matter. Where are you right now?”

There was a pause, and then a chuckle.

“Expecting someone else, Peter?” a familiar voice curled cruel in his ear, deceptively light.

“Harry,” he said, the name falling from his lips like a stone.

“The one and only,” Harry drawled. “By the way, how is the new flame?”

Peter’s hand tightened reflexively, crushing his cell phone. The last thing he heard before it shattered under his grip was Harry’s manic laughter.

He ripped open his door and almost ran into May, standing on the other side of it with her hand raised and a grim look on her face. He froze in the doorway, his fingers wrapped around the frame, almost tight enough to crack the wood, his strength forgotten in the wake of the numb, blind panic that raced through his veins. He opened his mouth to offer an excuse – a reason, a lie – and no sound came out.

The worst lie he’d ever sold her wasn’t Spider-Man. No, it was this: standing on the landing, listening to Aunt May on the phone, the back of his head resting against the wall and his eyes shut as they told her about Gwen. And he’d just stood there, knowing that she would come up the stairs, and she’d have to find him and look him in the face and say, “Peter, there’s been an accident.”

He’d made her tell him. For the sake of Spider-Man, he’d made his aunt stand there and tell him that Gwen was dead, and he’d pretended he didn’t know. That he hadn’t held her body in his arms. That he hadn’t screamed and begged and pleaded already.

He made May think she was breaking his heart, because he was selfish and far, far too slow.

“What kind of accident?” he’d said, voice already rough, when it had played out all how he’d anticipated.

“Peter,” she’d said. Stopped. Taken a breath, visibly drawing strength. Trying to be strong, for him. “It’s Gwen.”

He hadn’t heard a lot else of what she’d said. That Gwen was dead. That it had had something to do with the blackout. That they thought Gwen had died resetting the power, a hero, though what she was doing there in the first place, no one seemed to know.

He knew.

 _My choice_ , Gwen had said. But had it been? Had it really? Peter was ten, twenty, a hundred times stronger than her. And maybe he would have died instead, and maybe she would have hated him forever – but wouldn’t that have been better?

He should never have told her he loved her.

May had touched his wrist and told him the police wanted to talk to him, because he was Gwen’s ex-boyfriend and her mother had given the police his name, thinking he might know something about what had been going through her head, no other reason, she assured him (he couldn’t stop seeing her fall) and he’d nodded, his head hung low, and all the while she’d been looking at him. Looking at him with something underneath the pain in her eyes. Like she knew he wasn’t telling her something.

Like she knew.

She was looking at him that way right now.

“Aunt May,” he said, voice breaking. “I have to. I have to go.”

May reached up and touched his chest, right over where the spider would have lain if he’d been wearing the suit.

“Go,” she said.

* * *

Johnny came to slowly, groggy and with a strange taste in his mouth, like the night after a crappy party in some guy’s parents’ garage out in Jersey, celebrating a racing win. He groaned, cracking his eyes open, but the sight that greeted him wasn’t his room at Baxter.

It was a dimly lit circular room, from what he could see of it, all chrome and pale green lights, the walls dotted with glass walled cells.

Johnny was in one of them. It was small and cramped, lit by more of the green lights.

He felt lightheaded.

There were two men across the room, not in cells. Johnny got his knees up under him and leaned forward, banging on the glass. It felt thick, thudding underneath his palms.

“Hey!” he said. “Hey, I’m in here!”

A figure approached. Johnny squinted at him, taking in his green bodysuit and flamboyant cape, all the way up to his face, which was obscured by an opaque white dome that looked a lot like a fishbowl. He looked exactly like the figure Peter had described, when he’d told Johnny what had attacked him that night down by the docks when Johnny had had to fish Spider-Man out of the river.

“Boss,” called the guy in the fishbowl. “He’s up.”

Johnny banged a fist on the glass. “Hey, I can hear you! Let me out of here!”

It was hard to tell with his head covered the way it was, but Johnny thought that fishbowl head spared him a glance before he turned and, cape swirling dramatically around his ankles, retreated. His partner followed him, and the door shut behind them, leaving Johnny alone.

Or, no – not alone. He could feel someone, hidden in the gloom.

“You’re awake. Finally.”

A young man approached him on the other side of the glass. He was about Johnny’s own age, but shorter and slighter, with delicate bird bones. His eyes were wide and blue and his mouth was pink. He was almost pretty, but in a sickly way, his skin so pale it was almost green and his eyes fever bright. He was wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket, both clearly expensive.

There was something in his eyes that made Johnny uneasy. He dropped into a crouch in front of the cage, regarding Johnny with those luminous eyes, his head tilted oddly to the side, the way the raptors in Jurassic Park cocked theirs when they were listening.

“Hey,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

There were speakers inside of the glass cell; Johnny heard him stereo, muffled through the glass and crystal clear through the speakers. Johnny was going to burn all of it down.

When he tried to flame on, nothing happened. He felt his fire, surging inside him, wrestling to get out, and it _hurt_ , like it was angry that couldn’t be released. He raised a hand to his throat, almost choking on it, and then it settled inside of him again, fizzling at his fingertips.

“Who are you?” Johnny asked. “What did you do to me?”

The boy smiled. “Oh, that? Don’t worry about it. It’s something I had one of my people whip up, but it doesn’t have any long lasting effects. You know, you should probably watch your drinks better at parties. It was _not_ hard getting ahold of your DNA. It’s pretty interesting stuff. You’ll be fine in a few hours. Maybe I’ll tell you about it then.” His smile sharpened. “If you behave.”

Before Johnny could even process that, the boy was straightening to his feet and backing away with careful, measured steps.

“Jonathan Spencer Storm, only son of Franklin and Mary Storm, of the Baxter Institute. Brother to one Susan Storm, now, _she’s_ done something interesting work,” the boy said, enunciating sharply. He prowled in circles, his hands held together behind his back in a gesture that belonged to a much older man. A gesture he must have picked up from someone else. The boy stopped to laugh. “I have to say, I was expecting more.”

“And you are…?” Johnny said, twisting to try and follow him. He still felt tired, his limbs heavy. He nearly stumbled over his own feet in the small space.

“My name is Harry Osborn,” he said, smiling. “We have a mutual friend.”

“Peter,” Johnny said before he could stop himself. He shut his mouth quickly, but it was too late and he couldn’t take the words back.

Harry threw his head back laughing, high and wild. “Peter! Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater.”

Johnny took a step back in spite of himself. There was something wrong about Harry – he could feel it even through the glass, even with his powers tamped down to embers. Something pulsed in Harry’s veins, hot and artificial, and it made the fire in Johnny want to run.

But Johnny wasn’t a runner, not anymore. Even if he was, there was nowhere to go.

“What do you want with him?” Johnny asked. “He hasn’t – he didn’t do anything.”

Harry’s hands slammed against the glass, hard enough to rattle. Johnny recoiled.

“You have no idea,” Harry snarled, “what Peter Parker has done to me.”

His hands slammed against the glass again, shoulders hunched and teeth bared, and then like a shadow passing over his face, something flickering behind his eyes, his demeanor shifted and changed. He leaned back again, his hands clasped behind his back.

“My apologies,” he said, the junior business man again. “I’m not being very welcoming. Peter brings that out in me.”

He smiled, like it was a joke.

“Where am I?” Johnny demanded. _Don’t let him bait you,_ he thought. _Don’t let him get under your skin. Don’t let him use Peter like that._ “What the hell is this place?”

“This place?” Harry said. He gestured with a flourish, as if he was about to give Johnny the grand tour. “We call it Special Projects. Very hush-hush, off the books, you know how it is.” His eyes glinted as he took a swaggering step forward. “Or maybe you don’t. Did your dear ol’ dad never give you the tour of the wet works?”

Johnny flinched. Harry caught it, and his smile sharpened.

“The things my father had on Baxter, oh,” he said, dropping into a crouch. He regarded Johnny seriously with those big blue eyes, just a touch too bright. Suddenly, the smug smile fell, replaced by something naked and vulnerable. He raised one hand to touch the glass. “It’s not like I don’t understand. I know what you’re going through. Our fathers lie to us, keep us in the dark. And then there’s Peter.”

“Don’t talk about him,” Johnny said, the words leaving his mouth before he could himself. He instantly regretted it.

“ _Peter_ ,” Harry said, louder, lips drawing back in a snarl. Gone was the fragility, the wounded child. “He makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room, doesn’t he? In the world. He’s your big, strong hero, right? He swans in and he acts like he can fix everything and do you know what the worst part is?”

His voice cracked. Johnny shook his head.

“The worst part,” Harry said, voice thick and eyes wet, “is that you _believe_ him.”

“I know what you did,” Johnny said, fighting for that spark within him. It fizzled at his fingertips, just out of reach.

“He lied to me!” Harry shouted, pacing a tight circle. “That’s what he does, you know. He lies. If you haven’t figured that out yet, you just haven’t caught him in it.” He turned towards Johnny again, practically trembling in his rage. “Your life or one of his precious secrets. Which do you think he’d chose? Because I know. I know exactly what he’d pick.”

“No,” Johnny said, swallowing and shaking his head. “That wouldn’t – he wouldn’t –”

Harry’s expression shifted, mockingly sympathetic.

“I’m sure that’s what his last lover thought, too,” he said.

 _”I told her to run,”_ Peter had said that night, his eyes wet and his face haunted. Johnny swallowed.

“You killed her,” he said.

“Is that what Peter told you happened?” Harry asked, inquisitive. He knelt in front of the glass. “Like I said. Peter lies. So.” He snapped his fingers. “Here’s how it’s going to happen. Peter has a choice. You, or his precious secrets. You’d better hope he makes the right one.”

Johnny swallowed hard, curling his hands into fists. “I’m not going to let you do this to him.”

“That’s sweet," Harry said. “I get it – when you love someone, you want to protect them. That’s your choice. That’s anybody’s choice, when they love someone. But Peter,” Harry continued, teeth bared. “Peter doesn’t make very good choices, does he?”

He slammed his hands against the glass, hard enough that it rattled; Johnny recoiled in spite of himself.

“Here’s the first thing one learns about an Osborn,” Harry said, pulling back. His smile was cold. “We’re not afraid of a little fire.”

Johnny took a breath, then he leaned forward, meeting Harry on the other side of the glass.

“Let me out of here and I’ll show you just how much fire I’ve got,” he said, putting the threat into every word.

Harry smiled.

“Can’t lay a good trap without the bait. Get them on the hook however you can. My father taught me that,” he said. Then he got to his feet and crossed the room, ignoring Johnny as he banged on the glass and shouted at him. He acted like he couldn’t hear him at all.

Harry only hesitated at the door. He turned back to Johnny. His eyes were as cold as ice.

“When she died,” he said, “I was unconscious with a strand of webbing wrapped around my throat. It would’ve broken my neck if I hadn’t taken certain – precautions. I didn’t even find out she was dead until days later. So while you wait for your precious Spider-Man to rescue you, ask yourself: who really killed Gwen Stacy?”

Then he slipped through the door and was gone, leaving Johnny alone with those words still ringing through the room.

Johnny dragged in a deep breath and pounded his fist against the glass, screwing up his eyes. He reached for his fire, but it remained frustratingly out of reach, trapped somewhere underneath his skin.

“Dammit,” he said. “Dammit. Peter.”

He collapsed backwards, and that was when he felt it: something small shifting in his pocket. He reached into his pocket and drew out the spider-tracer Peter had made for him; it must have survived his flaming on, protected by the unstable molecule pocket he’d jammed it into and then forgot about. He turned it over in his hand, examining it, then closed it in his fist.

Peter had promised him. If Johnny ever needed him, he would come for him. All Johnny had to do was push the button. But how could he do that when he’d be leading Peter straight into the lion’s den? Into this place with a man who wanted him dead above all else?

He exhaled, swearing under his breath, and opened his fist.

Peter would be coming for him anyway. Johnny knew that with more surety than he’d known anything before. He was coming anyway, and Johnny had to trust him. He’d trusted in Spider-Man long before he’d fallen in love with him. And just maybe Johnny could give him a head start.

They were stronger together. He had to believe that.

He pushed the button.

* * *

There was a hole burned straight through one of the Baxter Building’s windows. Peter figured that was as good a place as any to start.

“Johnny!” he shouted, swinging through the hole and landing in a crouch. “Johnny, are you here?”

“He’s not here.”

Sue Storm sat behind a desk, her head bowed so her blond hair overshadowed her face.

“Johnny,” she said without looking up. “He’s not here. He left.”

“How long ago?” Peter asked. “I need to find him. It’s important.”

Sue looked up at him, sharp eyed and assessing. Peter felt like he was being scanned from head to toe.

“Did something happen?” she asked, rising to her feet. “Did you do something to my brother?”

“I’m trying to protect him,” Peter said. He could feel his hands start to shake. He’d wanted so badly to be wrong, to get to the Baxter Building and find Johnny safe and whole and untouched by Harry. “There’s a bad guy out there who wants revenge on me and he knows I care about Johnny. I need to get him somewhere safe.”

Sue had pulled out her phone in the middle of his explanation and held it up to her ear.

“He’s not picking up,” she said, glancing at Peter.

“I know, I’ve been trying his phone,” Peter said. “Do you have any idea where he went?”

“We had a fight,” Sue said. Sounded familiar, Peter didn’t say. “He left.” She glanced at him again, still with that cutting gaze, like he was being flayed open. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? I have no idea who you are. I don’t even know if you’re the same Spider-Man as Johnny’s.”

He reached up and tugged his mask off over his head, revealing his face. He knew it wouldn’t mean anything to her – he could have been any guy in New York – but he needed to make the gesture.

“My name is Peter Parker. Please,” he said. “This is all my fault. I just need to make sure he’s okay.”

Sue Storm looked at him, her mouth hanging just faintly open, and then she whirled on her heel and marched from the room.

“Reed!” she shouted. “Reed, where are you?”

A head poked around the corner, suspended on an unnaturally elongated neck. “Sue?”

“It’s Johnny,” she said. “I can’t get in touch with him and Spider-Man thinks one of his enemies might be after him. Do you have any idea where he is?”

Reed shook his head as the rest of his body caught up to his neck. There was a rumble from behind him, like rocks sliding against each other, and Ben Grimm joined him.

“No,” he said. “I haven’t seen him today. Ben?” He glanced first at Ben, who shook his head no, and then his gaze fell on Peter’s bare face and he added, “Oh, Spider-Man. Hi again.”

“You’ve met?” Sue said as she looked between Reed and Peter.

“I caught him coming out of Johnny’s room,” Reed said. Sue made a face.

“Wait, _that’s_ what Spider-Man looks like under there?” Ben asked, pointing a huge rocky finger at him. There was an unfair amount of judgment in his tone coming from a seven foot tall rock man.

“That’s not important,” Sue said. “We need to figure out where Johnny is. Reed –”

“I know,” Reed cut her off, settling a hand at her wrist. “I get it. We’re going to find him. Has anyone checked his garage?”

The garage was empty, save for the cars and a muted television in the corner that Johnny must have forgotten to turn off the last time he was down here. Peter cursed, slamming his fist down against the nearest table, and it crumpled underneath his touch. Fear rushed through him, jittery and uncontrollable, dulling his thoughts. _Not Johnny_ , at war with _not again_.

“I’ll track his phone,” Reed said.

“Surprised you haven’t microchipped us yet,” Ben grumbled, his huge arms crossed. Even through the solid stone of his body, Peter could see that he was tense and trying to hide it. “Johnny’s tough. He can take care of himself.”

That part he said to Sue, and she breathed in deep and shook her head.

“We had a fight,” she said. “If he’s not thinking straight –”

“Hey,” Ben said in a rumbling whisper, fitting his huge around her back. “We’ll find him.”

“This is all my fault,” Peter said, unable to keep still one moment longer. “I need to be out there, looking for him.”

He needed to find Harry and settle this once and for all.

He turned and found his way blocked by an invisible wall.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Sue said. “Not until you tell me more about this person who is after my brother.”

Peter opened his mouth – to what? To explain? To say that they didn’t have time for that, not when Harry might already have Johnny? Harry had promised that he wouldn’t hurt May, but how was Peter supposed to trust him? He needed to be doing _something_ ; every moment of inaction killed him a little bit.

The signal hit him out of the blue like a punch to the face, much more intense than the usual slow tingle of his spider-sense, a dawning awareness that something was wrong on his web. He’d designed it that way, but the unexpectedness of it sent him stumbling almost to his knees even as Reed’s hand shot out to steady him.

It was the signal from the spider-tracer he’d given Johnny only hours before.

He’d tested the spider-tracers, but not on this scale. It was like a jolt, the all over tingle of his spider-sense, but focused, a straight line instead of a burst. His mental map of New York took on a new purpose, showing him point A – where he stood in the Baxter Building – to point B, where Johnny was, a little over a mile away.

Three kinds of relief rushed through him: his spider-tracers worked. Johnny was still alive. Johnny was calling for him, trusted Peter to come and get him.

“Oh,” he breathed out, focusing on that mental spider-web and hanging onto it for dear life. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Peter wasn’t going to fail him. Not this time. He straightened up, pushing away Reed’s offered hand.

“I know where he is,” he said. “Johnny. He’s at –”

“Is that Oscorp?” Ben said suddenly.

“What?” Peter asked, thrown for a loop.

“The news was on a second ago. Then the screen went dark and this weird guy showed up,” Ben raised one rocky hand and pointed a finger at the television playing silently in the corner of the lab. “Reed, turn it up.”

Instead of picking up the remote, like a normal person, one of Reed’s arms stretched over to the television, turning the volume up.

It was Oscorp. Even if the sign hadn’t been in the picture, Peter would know that building anywhere. But the building wasn’t what he was looking at.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. There, on the screen, was Mysterio, the first time he’d seen him in all those months after he’d beaten him. He looked the same – same green bodysuit, same fishbowl head. Held in his hand was one tiny, glimmering flame, licking seemingly harmlessly at his fingers.

“No,” Peter said, under his breath.

“My name is Mysterio, master of illusions, and I have a challenge for Spider-Man. What does a man most hold dear? His own life, or the life of the one he loves? An easy question for a hero to answer, no?” His voice was even stranger, filtered through the television. “Take off your mask, and reveal yourself to the people of New York. Let the world see your face.” Mysterio closed his fingers one by one around the glimmering flame held in his palm. Smoke curled up from between his fingers. “Do as I ask, and I’ll let the last spark of hope you have left live. You have one hour.”

The transmission went dead. Peter felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Harry,” he snarled. Mysterio was just the front man. Just another illusion in and of himself. This whole thing was Harry, through and through.

“You have to do it,” Sue said, turning to Peter.

He clenched his mask in his fist. _You’re going to make enemies,_ George Stacy had said, what felt like a lifetime ago, dying on Oscorp’s roof. _People are going to get hurt._

“I can’t,” Peter ground out.

It was like getting slammed face first against a wall. He found himself knocked backwards a split second after his spider-sense went off, pushed clear across the room. The plaster cracked and dented as his back met the wall. The pressure was incredible.

“He has _my brother_ ,” Sue said, her hands held out in front of her. “I won’t let you let him die.”

“Sue,” Reed said, closing his hand around her shoulder, his voice quiet but insistent.

Sue dragged in a breath, and then lowered her hands. The pressure dropped and Peter fell, coughing, to his hands and knees.

Invisible forcefield to the chest. Not recommended, he thought grimly. Not that he could blame her. He wanted to slam himself into a wall, too.

“I can’t take my mask off like he wants me to,” Peter repeated, forcefully. “There are people in my life. My aunt. My face goes out, and that’s it. I can’t do it. But I am not going to let anything happen to Johnny. I swear it. I _swear_ it.”

“If Spider-Man unmasks, they might kill Johnny anyway,” Reed cut in. He looked over at Peter as he struggled to his feet. “You know him, the man who took him. Do you think there’s a chance of that?”

Peter thought about Gwen, falling from Harry’s arms.

“I think there’s not a lot Harry won’t do to get his way,” he said. “And what Harry wants is to hurt me.”

Sue let out a breath. Though she was steady, her fingertips, Peter noticed, were fading in and out of sight, like she couldn’t quite hold herself on the visible spectrum.

“Okay,” she said, though she didn’t sound happy about it. “Then what do we do?”

“Spider-Man, you said you know where Johnny is?” Reed said. “How?”

Peter gave him the quick version, going over how both the web of his spider-sense and the spider-tracers worked. Reed listened intently, a light in his eyes, and on any other day Peter suspected he’d be subjected to a lot more questions. Today, though, the time limit weighted heavily on all of them with each passing second.

“And you can find him with this signal?” Reed asked.

“I can find him,” Peter said. He raised a hand, curling it into a fist as he rested it against his chest. “I can feel him.”

“So we go get Johnny,” Ben said, “our own damn selves.”

“We’re not playing by his rules,” Reed agreed. He held out one long arm. “Hands in the circle.”

“This again?” Ben asked in a rhetorical rumble. His own huge hand covered Reed’s completely.

Sue took a deep breath and then she placed hers over one of Ben’s fingers.

Reed, Sue, and Ben all looked at him expectantly, a silent invitation. They were practically strangers to him, and he was to them, but they loved Johnny, too. They were united on that front.

Peter placed his hand over Sue’s.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go get my brother.”

* * *

The lobby level of Oscorp was deserted. There was an eerie feeling in the air, like ghosts were watching from the rafters. After everything that had happened in this building, maybe there were. Peter touched the corner of the desk where, not as many years ago as it felt, he’d snagged someone else’s internship badge and set everything in motion with just one little lie.

It felt like a lifetime ago. He drew his hand away from the desk.

Mysterio was here. Even if Peter couldn’t feel him, waiting in the wings, he knew from the way his mists had started to creep in, swirling inches from the floor.

“Watch out,” he told the others. “This guy’s some kind of Vegas nightmare. Uses illusions, sleights of hands. I think there’s something in this mist.”

He’d tried to see if he could analyze any residue that might’ve been left on his costume, even after his dip in the river, but he didn’t own the kind of equipment for that, or have easy access to it anymore, and in the end it had just been him and a bloody, foul smelling costume, sitting alone in the ESU lab he’d broken into, longing for Gwen, who had always been smarter than him.

Sue looked interested, a spark behind her eyes, so maybe she’d be able to get something out of it, at least.

Right now, the only thing Peter was itching for was round two.

Mysterio’s voice, when it came, seemed to sound from all corners of the room, bouncing off the walls and echoing over itself.

“Prince Charming arrives,” he said. “And he brings with him the cavalry. Playing against the rules, are we, Spider-Man?”

“Where the hell is he?” Ben asked.

Peter launched himself into the air, for the vantage point more than anything else. He was fairly sure Mysterio’s suit had no flight capability, but there was always a chance he’d hidden rigging and wires.

The problem with the special spider-tracer, he was beginning to find, was that the signal was so strong it made every other twinge and tingle of his spider-sense feel muted and indistinct, lost underneath the stronger signal. He felt for Mysterio on the web and couldn’t find him under the pull towards Johnny.

He didn’t have to wait long for Mysterio to reveal himself properly. A bang and a flash, like fireworks, and there he was, emerging from the sparks in the center of the room.

Peter didn’t speak. He dove, striking out, and connected with nothing more than the floor. He drew his hackles back behind the mask, frustration surging in him. He’d almost forgotten how much he hated this.

Smoke and mirrors, he told himself as Mysterio laughed. It was just smoke and mirrors.

“Tick tock,” Mysterio called out. “There’s still time left on the clock.”

All of Peter’s senses besides the sixth one the spider had given him told him that Mysterio was on his left.

But Peter had had a lot of time to think about that first fight with Mysterio, to analyze where he had gone wrong. He closed his eyes, drowned out what he was hearing, and relied solely on the web as he struck out.

Mysterio’s fishbowl-esque headpiece shattered under his fist. He fell backwards, landing in an undignified heap on the ground, sprawled out over his own cape. He tried to get up and an invisible force pushed him back down, the ground splintering underneath him.

Sue faded back into view.

“Where,” she said, crouched over Mysterio on an invisible platform, “is my brother?”

Mysterio laughed in her face and got a forcefield across his own for the trouble.

“We don’t need him,” Peter said. He was standing stock still, even though he felt like every inch of his body was vibrating. The spider-tracer’s signal was still working, and he could feel Johnny, far below their feet. “I can find him. I can _feel_ him.”

“I’m going with you,” Sue said.

“I’ll stay here,” Reed said. “I’ll figure out how his suit works, make sure the authorities don’t run into any trouble.”

He looked at Sue and something passed between them, but Peter didn’t know either of them well enough to be able to name what it was.

The encountered their first problem at the elevators.

“I’m too heavy,” Ben ground out, eyeing the elevator. “I don’t fit.”

Sue touched the back of his hand.

“We’ll be back,” she said. She slipped into the elevator and the glass doors closed, letting them look at Ben Grimm’s stony face as it descended into the depths of Oscorp.


	10. Chapter Nine

Peter paced the entire way down. Even without the lingering signal from his spider-tracer to guide them, they would have found Johnny. The elevators took them down without any need to push a button.

Harry wanted this confrontation too much to leave it to chance.

Where he was restless, Sue Storm was still. She stared unmoving out of the glass elevator, her gaze focused and her hands clenched. Johnny hadn’t talked a lot about his sister, and Peter only knew her from some of her research. Somehow, he hadn’t expected the quiet intensity of her, like the calm at the eye of a hurricane. Gwen had used to read her stuff, too, he remembered. Gwen had been impressed.

He clenched his hands into fists. He couldn’t think about Gwen right now.

The doors opened on a floor of Oscorp so low Peter hadn’t known it existed. He’d been counting in his head and it didn’t correspond to any of the buttons of the elevator. He’d seen plans of the building before and it wasn’t on any of them, either.

He stepped out first, throwing an arm out to halt Sue. It was a gesture that, by the noise she made, she didn’t appreciate, but he didn’t care. He was past this game, past letting anyone else get hurt.

No matter how much they might hate him afterwards.

The corridor was dark and lined with metal security doors. At the very end of it, there was another elevator, this one smaller, all black and green.

Peter walked forward and the door slid smoothly open.

“This feels like a trap,” Sue murmured, keeping her voice whisper low.

“Yeah,” Peter said, hoarse. “It does. But Harry wants me too bad.” He glanced back at her. “I’m going.”

“If Johnny’s down there, then so am I,” Sue said.

It was a tight fit. Neither of them spoke as the small elevator traveled down – down, down, down – into the darkness.

The room it opened into was circular, lit green and chrome, and filled with glass displays that looked like they’d held something, previously. Armor. Weapons. Peter didn’t know and didn’t care. Most were empty now. He stepped out, seemingly alone. Halfway down Sue Storm had abruptly flickered out of sight.

Directly opposite the elevator were Johnny and Harry.

Harry was standing, wearing the same Oscorp armor he had been that night at the power station. Johnny was locked in one of the now empty displays, his hands pressed to the glass and his eyes wide. He saw Peter and immediately started pounding on the glass, but his shouts were muffled and besides, Peter could barely hear over the buzzing in his own ears.

“You’re late,” Harry said.

Peter threw himself at Harry, unthinking and filled with nothing but rage. Nothing mattered in that moment but getting him away from Johnny, however he had to do that.

His spider-sense blared as something hit him – hard. Harry laughed, high and wild, that goblin’s cackle, as Dr. Octavius melted out of the shadows, suspended on two of those long metal arms.

“I’m not the one who was stupid enough to come alone,” Harry said. Momentarily stunned, Peter tried to rise up, but those metal arms snaked around his wrists and his ankles, dragging him backwards even as he tried to gain purchase. He stuck his fingers to the floor and the floor gave before Octavius did.

He ended up on his knees with Octavius’ tentacles wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. One tentacle wrapped tight around his throat, and every time Peter flexed against the ones holding his arms immobile it tightened a little more, choking him.

“Better,” Harry said.

He slapped his palm against a panel on the wall and the glass slid open. Johnny, who had been hammering against it with increasing desperation – what had Harry done to his flames? – fell out. Harry slid behind him, pulling him back against his chest.

Johnny was taller and broader than Harry, and should have made him look small. He didn’t, not with Harry in that awful armor. There had always been a fragility about Harry, ever since they’d been kids, no matter how hard his father had tried to grind it out of him. Harry had continued the experiments that Norman had started with harsh words and boarding schools, tried to breed it out of himself with armor and stolen spider venom, and finally it had worked.

“Spider-Man,” he said. His hand curled around Johnny’s throat. “And still in the mask. You know what you are, Spider-Man? You’re a disappointment. You are _always_ disappointing me.”

“Let him go, Harry,” Peter said. “You don’t want him, you want me.”

“Oh, we are well past that,” Harry said, grinning at him, sharp and cruel. “You’re not calling the shots anymore, Spider-Man. You’re not making the _decisions_. You don’t get to decide who lives and who dies.”

“It was never about that, Harry!” Peter said. “I was trying to protect you! You wouldn’t let me, and look what happened.”

“His secrets or your life,” Harry drawled, almost lazily, in an aside to Johnny. “See, Johnny Storm? I told you which he’d pick.”

“I’m not playing your game, Harry,” Peter said. Octavius’ tentacle tightened at his throat. “You want me? You got me. Leave him out of this.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said, grinning down at Johnny. “You want me to too much.”

He looked up, the amusement gone from his face. Abruptly, he shoved Johnny to the side, and Peter felt every inch of him tense. This was Sue’s chance to get him out of here. He prayed that she would take it.

“I’m going to kill him in front of you,” Harry said. “But not yet.”

“This is about me, Harry,” Peter choked out, struggling against the tentacles. “This is not about him.”

“You were going to throw me away,” Harry said, kneeling in front of him. He ran one armored finger down Peter’s masked cheek. “Just like my father. You turned your back on me.”

“Whatever you want to think, Har,” Peter said, cold and defiant. “I’m not the one who’s been playing this stupid game over my revenge.”

“This place,” Harry said, glancing around. “They destroyed the spiders, you know. After Connors’ reptilian nervous breakdown. But they extracted the venom. Kept it down here the whole time.” His blue eyes glinted green as he looked at Peter. “This place made both of us. The sum total of your father and my father’s accomplishments. And now I’m going to kill you in it.”

“You really are a lot like your father.” For a second, even as Harry looked up sharply, Peter couldn’t place the voice. Then the arms around his loosened; it was Octavius talking. “Impulsive _and_ traitorous is a poor combination of traits, young Osborn.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Harry asked, disdain dripping from his voice.

Peter felt the arm move against his skin as it unwound from him, but it moved so fast he almost missed the silver blur of it as it struck Harry. The world slowed down as Harry fell backwards, away from him, and Peter found himself free.

Sue flickered into sight, her hands at Johnny’s shoulders. Peter flung out a hand, prepared to get between them and Octavius, unsure what, exactly, was happening.

“You idiot!” Harry shouted at Octavius. “What are you doing? We had a deal!”

“As if I would want anything as trivial as your money,” Octavius said. The arms that had previously held Peter now struck out at Harry who, discombobulated, clumsily attempted to dodge them, one his gauntleted arms flying up to protect himself. “But when you offered me a chance to recoup my old work, well, now _that_ was interesting.”

The arms struck out again, and Harry hit the wall hard.

“Go!” Peter shouted at Johnny and Sue.

“No!” Johnny shouted, pulling at his sister’s arms. “I’m not leaving without you!”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Peter lied, transfixed by the sight in front of him, Harry struggling against Octavius, a multi-limbed flash of green and chrome on green and chrome. “Just go!”

“I knew you’d hold some back, of course,” Octavius said, pinning Harry’s wrists to the wall. “Just like your father would. Once I got that back, well. That’s when I started thinking about a little revenge of my own. If anything, you should be flattered to have served as an inspiration. Your father never quite managed that for me.”

“You’re ruining the plan,” Harry said, defiant like a child, struggling against Octavius’ arms. One of the arms caught him, hard, across the face, and he yelled.

“This was always the plan,” said Octavius. He raised a hand – one of his flesh and blood ones – to stroke along a metal arm, tenderly, like a lover. It made Peter’s skin crawl. “To ruin _you_ in the place where your father stole my greatest work.”

“No!” Harry snarled. “I won’t let you do this to me!”

“Take your paramour and go, Spider-Man,” Octavius said, sounding almost bored as Harry writhed underneath him. “If you’re lucky, perhaps we shall not meet again.”

No, Peter thought. No, this wasn’t how this was going to end. Not by anyone else’s hand.

The claws of one long metal arm closed around Harry’s head, slamming him back. Without thinking, Peter threw himself on Dr. Octavius.

Last time they’d fought, Octavius had taken him by surprise. Peter had been unsure of his motivations. He’d wanted to figure him out. Now, none of those things mattered. The only thing that mattered was that Peter was angry, and Harry was _his_.

The anger worked to his advantage; whatever Octavius had expected from him, this barrage of blows wasn’t it. Octavius might have been strong, and those metal arms might’ve given him more range than Peter had, but Peter was faster by far. He didn’t give Octavius any time to recover from the initial strike.

Peter closed his hands around two of those metal arms and pulled, as hard as he could, _harder_ than he thought he could, the muscles in his arms screaming. There was a guttural cry of rage echoing through the room, and it was only when the arms tore away from the rest of the harness that he realized the sound was coming from him.

Dr. Octavius was screaming, too. Peter took a kind of sick satisfaction in that.

“My arms!” he wept. “How could you do that to my arms?”

“Easily,” Peter spat out, and then he hit him again, hard. He tossed him, unconscious, to the side, uncaring of where he landed, trusting that Sue would take of it. He had no interest in Otto Octavius.

Removing Otto brought him to Harry, lying on the ground. He struggled up on his elbows, his eyes luminous in the gloom. Doubtlessly the Oscorp armor was already working to heal his injuries.

“Peter,” Harry said, in a hoarse, almost awed sort of voice.

Wordless, Peter pulled his fist back and slammed it into his face. He put everything he had behind it, even when his arms were still trembling with the efforts of pulling Octavius’ arms off. Then he did it again, and again. Harry made a wet, strangled sound, and some vicious satisfaction surged in Peter’s chest.

Harry Osborn wasn’t leaving this room.

Peter held him with one hand and reached up with the other to rip off his mask, throwing it to the ground.

“Octavius wanted his revenge. You wanted your revenge. It’s my turn now. You wanted to see my face so badly, Harry?” he demanded. “Here it is. Here it is. It’s the last thing you’re ever gonna see.”

“You don’t have it in you,” Harry spat at him, blood spilling from his mouth.

Peter pulled his fist back.

Someone hit him from behind, their arms wrapped tight around his waist, pulling him back. Peter almost shook them off, wordless in his rage, ready to finish it. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the person holding him was Johnny.

He froze.

“Stop it,” Johnny said, holding on tight. “Stop it, you’re going to kill him.”

That was the plan, Peter thought. He was going to end it, once and for all.

“Let go of me, Johnny,” he said, and getting the words out felt like swallowing broken glass. Speaking was hard. Keeping still was hard. The only thing that made sense was the impact of his fist against Harry’s face. “He hurt you. He could’ve killed you. Let me finish it.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Johnny said. “You beat him. It’s over.”

“No,” Peter said. “Not yet.”

“Spider-Man,” Johnny said, face against Peter’s shoulder. His arms trembled where they were locked around him. “Please. Don’t.”

“Do it,” Harry demanded, his voice high and broken, drowned out in blood. There were tears in his eyes. “Do it, Peter!”

Peter could finish it. But Johnny might never look at him the same. Mary Jane and May – how was he supposed to look at them, if he did this? May would know. He thought that, somehow, she would look at him and she would just know. How could he do that to her?

Would Gwen have wanted this? For him? Really and truly? She’d told him, hadn’t she? _We have to be greater than what we suffer._

He hesitated, weighing her words against the sensation of Harry’s blood soaking through his glove, against the weight of Johnny at his back, and then he released Harry, sending him sprawling to the ground. Harry lay there, bloodied and unable to move, tears spilling from his eyes.

“Thank you,” Johnny said, voice wet. He tightened his grip on Peter, his forehead down against his shoulder. “Spider-Man, thank you.”

Peter dragged in a harsh breath and leaned back against him.

“It’s over, Harry,” he said. He couldn’t look at him. “It’s finished. No more.”

Then he pulled himself to his feet and turned away, into Johnny’s waiting arms. He let Johnny support most of his weight, leaning together as they left the room. Peter closed his eyes; the long warm line of Johnny at his side almost made it easy to ignore Harry’s pitiful cries as they stepped into the private elevator.

It should have felt like a victory, but it didn’t. It didn’t feel like anything at all.

* * *

Peter fell against him as soon as they were back on the upper levels, and Johnny had to wrap his arms around him, partly to feel him and partly because he thought if he didn’t Peter would sink to the ground and maybe never get back up. He held him as he waited for Sue, who reappeared – literally – after another moment.

“Is everything --?” he started to ask, overly aware of Peter in his arms.

“Everyone’s still alive, if that’s what you mean,” Sue said. Her face was unreadable. “Somehow. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, hoarse. “Yeah, I think we just need a moment. Is that – is that okay?”

“I’ve got the room locked down,” Sue said. “I’ve been practicing my range, so the field will hold. I’ll see you upstairs. I need to go find Reed and Ben.”

She faded from sight.

Johnny listened to her go, the quiet sound of her footsteps against the floor, and then he refocused his attention on Peter.

He was shaking. From rage or exhaustion or fear, Johnny didn’t know.

“Hey,” he said, pulling back just enough to get a look at Peter’s face. “Hey, you with me?”

“You okay?” Peter asked him, his voice wrecked and his eyes blown wide, all the color drained from his face.

“Yeah,” Johnny said, suddenly breathless, looking at him. “Yeah, I—I’m okay.”

It hit him all at once, everything that had just happened, and like a one-two punch, what it must have done to Peter. He wrapped his arms around him again, putting his forehead down against Peter’s shoulder.

“I’m okay,” he repeated.

Peter just kept touching him, gloved hands cradling Johnny’s face, his head, thumb pressed for a restless few seconds to the pulse at Johnny’s throat. “You’re okay, you’re okay. Hey, talk to me, tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Johnny said, hoarse.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Peter said, tilting his head up and pressing a kiss to Johnny’s forehead. His fingers trembled at the back of Johnny’s neck. “You’re okay, you’re fine. I got you, don’t worry, I got you.”

There was something a little faraway in his voice; he wasn’t thinking entirely of Johnny. That was okay, though. Johnny couldn’t begrudge him his ghosts, not when he had his own.

“We getting a happy ending?” Johnny asked. Peter sucked in a shaky breath.

“It’s weird,” he said, laughing a little, wet and awful. “I’m not sure I like it.”

Johnny ducked his head, hiding his smile against Peter’s shoulder, and teased, “Hold me.”

When Peter’s arms came up and around him, though, he didn’t complain.

“You did the right thing,” Johnny said. “Peter, you did the right thing.”

Peter looked at him, and his eyes were unreadable. His brought his hand up to caress Johnny’s cheek again, his touch lingering and reverent. Then his hand dropped to his side. He pulled away from Johnny and took a deep breath.

“My mask,” he said, looking around like he’d only just now realized he’d taken it off.

“Here,” Johnny said, holding it up. He’d grabbed it from the ground when Peter had tossed it aside. “I saved it for you. Can I?”

Peter nodded and Johnny pulled the mask over his head, settling it into place and smoothing the seam between the mask and the top half of the costume.

“There, masked man,” he said. “You’re Spider-Man again.”

“Was I not Spider-Man before?” Peter asked. The tone of his voice was both joking and forced, another mask under the mask.

Johnny glanced down at Peter’s gloved hands, covered in Harry Osborn’s blood. He was clenching and unclenching them, seemingly without realizing it. Johnny reached out to touch his wrist and still him.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

The scene down beneath was chaos. The building was crawling with police officers and security and a handful of men in black who were a little too good at looking innocuous, and Johnny was thankful when Reed and Sue stepped in to handle that. Ben loomed behind them, and if nothing else, having an eight foot tall man made out of stone on their side always seemed to give them a sort of authority.

At some point, Peter melted into the background. Johnny saw him do it – he’d gestured, subtly to him before he swung himself up, high above everyone’s head, and skittered away, more spider-like than ever.

Johnny figured he planned to stay out of sight until things had died down, and as much as he needed to feel the weight of Peter’s hand in his right now, he understood.

“Look,” he said to Sue when there seemed to be a lull in the general conversation. He held up one hand and lit up the tips of his fingers, five little birthday candles flames. “Powers’re coming back.”

Sue had drawn his blood with the medical kit they kept in the Fantasticar, as if today hadn’t sucked enough, after he’d told her about how Osborn and his crew had somehow tamped his powers down, determined to figure out how they’d done that. _And to stop it from happening again,_ she’d said.

Johnny just wanted to know why they only had boring bandaids in the kit.

“That’s good,” Sue said. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll probably be sore tomorrow,” Johnny said. “I’m okay, Sue. Just a little shook up.”

“Where’d your boyfriend go?” she asked with a strange tone in her voice, like she was holding herself back from saying what she really wanted to.

Johnny pointed up.

“I don’t think he likes large groups of cops all asking questions very much,” Johnny said.

“Can’t say I blame him,” Sue said. “I saw what he did.”

“Something you want to say about that, sis?” Johnny asked, swallowing hard. It was still too fresh, the memory of Peter hitting Harry Osborn again and again and again, the ringing echo of Peter’s animal screams in his ears. He flexed his hands, remember the press of his sister’s hands at his shoulders. “You could’ve stopped him. Pulled him off with a force field. You didn’t.”

She stared back at him, unmoving, and for a moment Johnny thought she wasn’t going to answer him. Then she looked down. Her fingers found his, her hand slipping into his grip.

“I wasn’t sure I wanted to,” she said.

He wrapped an arm around his sister, bringing her in close to him. He had to bend to press his cheek to the top of her hair, and she breathed in deep, resting her head against his chest. They still fit together like they had when they were little kids, even if it wasn’t as simple as hiding out under a Baxter conference table with Sue’s favorite books waiting to see if their dad would find them anymore.

Johnny exhaled and let go.

“I’m going to go home with Spider-Man tonight. He needs me,” he told Sue. She looked up at him with wary eyes. “But I’ll be back at the Baxter Building tomorrow. I promise.”

“Okay,” she said. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” he said.

She reached up to wrap an arm around his neck. “I love you, Johnny.”

“I love you, too, sis,” he said, squeezing her tight, even though he knew she kind of hated it. She allowed it, just this one time. “After the night I’ve had, I don’t think I’m ever going to miss another team meeting.”

“And we’re going to talk?” Sue said, sounding unsure as he pulled away. He ran his hands down the lengths of her arms until he was holding onto her by the fingertips. “About tonight, and the team? Spider-Man?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning back and leading her with him a step before he let go. “We’ll talk about all of it. Hey, Sue. You’re my sister, okay? I don’t love anybody more than you.”

She smiled at him, then, a real smile.

“Good night, Johnny,” she said. “Try not to get kidnapped again.”

“I’m working on it,” Johnny said. “Night, sis.”

That made the only thing left to do, besides dodging everyone who wanted him to rehash his story for the three thousandth time, was to find Peter. Easier said than done. He scanned the ceiling, including every dark corner, but there was no man in a red and blue suit to be found. Neither was Peter milling around with the remaining crowd. Neither Reed nor Ben had seen him.

A knot of fear rose up in his throat. Tonight had been Peter’s worst fear, and Johnny vividly remembered the wild panic in his eyes. Maybe it had been too much for him. Maybe he’d left. Maybe he was leaving _Johnny_.

But that wasn’t fair. They’d been through tonight together and come out stronger. He’d trusted Peter, and in turn, Peter had let him save him from himself, before he did something he’d regret. At least, that’s what Johnny had thought. Maybe he’d been wrong.

He broke into a run as he headed for the doors, and he barely made it out of them before a tall, lean figure in his way brought him up short.

It was Peter, standing on the sidewalk, wearing a pair of wrinkled street clothes. The Spider-Man costume was nowhere in sight. Johnny’s lungs burned with relief.

“Where’d you go?” he asked.

“Had a spare bag in the area,” he said, gesturing to his hoodie. The corners of his lips quirked up in a tired smile. “Never know when you might need a quick change, right?”

He let out an _oof_ as Johnny fell against him, wrapping his arms around his neck.

“You smell like pigeons,” he said. “I thought you left.”

“Without you?” Peter said. “Not a chance. Let’s go home.”

* * *

Johnny’s flames were flickering, and Peter was too tired to swing, so they took the subway, slumped together in the corner of a back car. Somewhere between Manhattan and Queens Johnny reached over and tangled his fingers with Peter’s. It was an easy thing to squeeze his hand back, let his head fall leaden onto Johnny’s shoulder.

He didn’t realize he’d drifted off until Johnny shook him, said, “Hey, it’s our stop. C’mon.”

Our stop, easy as that. They walked back to Peter’s with their hands swinging slow and easy between them.

Mary Jane was outside of Anna’s house, about to get on her bike despite the late hour. She took one look at them and whistled sharply.

“Rough night, boys?” she said, shaking out her hair. “May’s been pacing the floor. Anna and I can see her through the kitchen window.”

“Thanks, MJ,” Peter called, half-cringing. Johnny lifted his hand in a lazy wave.

“Good luck. You know I’m rooting for you,” she said, smiling, before she swung herself up on her bike and sped away.

It was only then that Peter noticed Anna Watson standing on her doorstep in her robe and glasses, probably waiting until her niece was out of sight. She gave them the once over, noting their wrinkled clothes and joined hands, and her eyebrows shot up before she stepped back indoors.

“Worst gossip on the block,” Peter mumbled to Johnny, lifting his eyes meaningfully in the direction of Anna’s door.

“Thought that was you,” Johnny said around a yawn. "Are we in bed yet?"

Peter thought with a cold hot flash about how, under different circumstances, Johnny might say that and Peter could grab him around the waist, hoist him up in his arms and carry him up the narrow stairs, caveman style. Would Johnny laugh? Would he like that? Peter didn't know yet, but he wanted to find out.

It hit him, that he had time to find out.

It was going to have to wait for another day, though - right now the weight of his keys seemed like a sack full of bricks. He took a wrong step, pitching forward, and ended up resting his forehead against the doorframe, laughing under his breath.

"C'mon, wild man," Johnny said, fumbling the keys out of Peter's hands.

The door flew open before Johnny had a chance to turn it, revealing May behind it. The look of panic in her face instantly melted into relief.

“You’re alright,” she said. “You’re both alright.”

“We’re alright,” Peter confirmed, even though he felt far from it.

“I was watching the news,” May said.

Johnny gave her a smile, apologetic. “Sorry for the intrusion, Mrs. Parker. And I know it must be stressful, with your nephew dating a superhero, but I promise, I won’t let anything happen to him.”

He said it like he meant it, and Peter knew he did, even though he was trying to cover for him. But May was looking at him with that expression again, and Peter wasn’t sure she’d even heard what Johnny had said.

“Hey, c’mere a second,” Peter said, leaning down and wrapping his arms around her.

May threaded her hand through the back of Peter’s hair and hung on tight, her silence as heavy as a stone. Peter wrapped his owns arms around her and thought about how maybe they’d both been too silent too long, and how maybe they’d been trying to protect each other from the wrong things.

But that was a conversation for another day.

“It’s okay,” he said, rubbing circles on her back. “It’s okay, we’re okay. Hey.” He pulled back, blinking the wetness from his eyes. “We’re exhausted. We’re going to turn in.”

“Of course,” she said, soft, reaching up to briefly cup his cheek.

He covered her hand with his own. “I love you.”

“I know,” she said. “Me, too.”

He turned and saw Johnny watching him from the corner of the room, something soft in his eyes. He smiled, slow and tired, and Peter felt himself answer it with a smile of his own.

When his bedroom door was shut and locked, and the rest of the world fell away. Peter leaned towards Johnny and Johnny met him, their mouths fitting together in a slow, unhurried kiss. Johnny’s hand came up to Peter’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing at his collarbone.

They stripped down in silence, save for when Peter threw his shirt at Johnny’s head and started to snicker, feeling semi-hysterical, at the offended look on his face. The shower was quick and perfunctory, and Peter hands only shook a little as he washed Johnny’s skin. Johnny’s hands were steady where they held his hips, keeping him grounded.

Afterwards, Johnny fell face forward onto Peter’s bed, groaning. He twisted so he was lying on his side with his back pressed to the wall.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing Peter’s hand and tugging at him. Peter dug his heels into the ground and stayed exactly where he was, laughing a little when Johnny pouted. “I’m tired, Pete. Let’s go to bed, okay?”

Johnny’s expression was so open, his fingers dangling from Peter’s, and Peter was so tired. He relaxed and let Johnny pull him down onto the bed. Their knees knocked together and their noses bumped, but Peter wasn’t complaining.

The kiss, when it came, was chaste and lazy, just the slide of Johnny’s lips against his own.

“You with me?” Johnny asked.

“Always,” Peter answered.

“Romantic,” Johnny said, grinning. “All attentive. It’s sexy.”

“Oh, I am way, way too tired,” Peter said, laughing. “Wake me up in five, six years, maybe then.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Johnny said.

He rolled over and wriggled back against Peter a little, then grabbed Peter’s arm and tugged it over him, so Peter’s hand was on his stomach. He laced their fingers together, squeezing, and hummed a good night.

“’Night,” Peter mumbled back, kissing Johnny’s shoulder, and then he closed his eyes.

He didn’t sleep, though. He couldn’t. He kept replaying everything in his head: Johnny in that glass cell; the feeling when Octavius’ metal arms had been ripped from him; the way Harry had looked at him; the deep, burning need to beat the life out of Harry, the animal rage. He’d wanted it more than anything in that moment.

Johnny’s voice, Johnny’s hands and body and sheer warmth grounding him again.

The rush of revulsion when he’d let go of Harry.

Underneath it all, always, Gwen. Gwen, on the end of a webline. Gwen, on the cold hard ground. Gwen, smiling at him with the lights of the holiday market glinting off her hair.

It repeated itself, over and over in his head, spinning around and around. He leaned up on one elbow, the old mattress sagging underneath him, and looked down at Johnny’s sleeping face.

Harry could have killed him. What would Peter have done, then? What would he have done if Johnny hadn’t been there to pull him back from the brink?

He didn’t know, and he wanted to say that scared him, but it didn’t, not really, and he didn’t know what that said about him, or how far he wanted to follow that path down. So instead, he played the whole thing over again in his head – Johnny, Harry, Gwen. He felt along the web of his memories, looking for different strands, different paths, until Johnny’s voice, sleep rough, drew him from his thoughts.

“What’s the matter?”

His eyes were still closed. Peter raised his hand to his face, stroking the back of his knuckles against Johnny’s jaw.

“Nothing’s the matter,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

“Yeah, right,” Johnny said, jaw cracking as he yawned. “You’re so tense you make Ben look like a marshmallow.” His eyes fluttered open, his gaze intense in the dark. If Peter looked deep enough into his eyes, he thought he could see embers. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Peter said, shaking his head. He traced his hand down Johnny’s neck, rubbing a thumb over his collarbone. “Just still keyed up, is all. I’m alright.”

Johnny looked at him like he didn’t really believe him.

“Hey,” he said. “No more secrets, alright? Not after tonight. And I know. I know tonight was everything you’re afraid of. But we got through it. Peter. You gotta let me in.”

“I know,” Peter said, sighing. He found Johnny’s hand in the dark and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his palm. He rested his mouth against the inside of Johnny’s wrist, over his pulse. “I know. I’m going to – I’m going to be better. I’m going to try. I’m just thinking, that’s all. I promise that’s all.”

They settled back down together onto Peter’s ancient twin mattress, Peter on his back and Johnny resting against his side, one hand on Peter’s chest. The edge of the bed was too close, and Peter didn’t care.

“Reed does this thing,” Johnny breathed out in the dark. “Big Brain thinks we don’t know, but he goes over all of it in his head. Some moment he could’ve done something different. The whole butterfly flaps its wings, hurricane halfway around the world shit, y’know?”

The basement didn’t flood, he didn’t find the briefcase, he didn’t go to Oscorp. No Spider-Man. Gwen got on that plane. But maybe Curt Connors' plan worked. Maybe what happened to Max Dillon happened anyway. No one to stop them.

“Yeah.” Peter nodded, staring at his dark ceiling. “I know.”

Johnny sighed, fingers tapping a pattern down Peter’s ribs. “My dad and my sister - he doesn’t meet them, there’s no accident. He’s just some boring, normal guy somewhere, and this never happens to any of us.”

“You ever wish it was like that?” Peter asked. Johnny shook his head, the movement rasping against their shared pillow. His nose brushed Peter’s.

"No," he said. "You didn't know me, before. Maybe Reed could go be that boring guy, but me - I crash and burn. Probably literally."

Peter could see it in his mind's eye and it made his chest constrict, the back of his throat ache, ice in his veins.

"I'm okay here," Johnny said softly, eyes searching in the gloom.

Peter took a shaky breath and told him the truth: "I'm getting there."

"Ouch," Johnny said, laughing, so Peter curled a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him in closer as he shut his own eyes.

* * *

Life crept back in slowly, and with it came something that felt a little like normalcy, Peter supposed. He’d never really known it well enough to say. But in the aftermath of Harry’s failed revenge, a kind of stillness fell over Peter’s life. It wasn’t what he’d ever expected normal to feel like – two parents, the weight of his father’s lab coat, a pair of glasses left on a table in the front hall. A life where the people in your life didn’t exchange significant looks they didn’t know he could see in the mirror, one where nobody ever fled their brownstone in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm. The memory of a beautiful girl in a high school hallway, wearing a ribbon in her hair, played over and over and over again.

He’d put away his father’s briefcase. Taken down most of the photos of Gwen. Tried to forget about the little boy with the big blue eyes and the way that boy’s father gripped his hand too hard. But maybe he’d closed the door on those memories wrong, forced it shut when he should have left it ajar.

He found that he was trying to more present. That had been Uncle Ben’s word for it when he’d been a kid. _You’re too stuck in your own head,_ he’d said, when he’d caught Peter playing alone. _You’ve got to be more present. Be more open. People will surprise you._ Once, and only once, he’d added ruefully, _Your dad was like that too. Never letting anyone in._

He didn’t let his mind wander when he watched the morning news with May, sitting together at the kitchen table. They hadn’t talked about the one lingering secret left yet, but the knowledge that they would hung between them, and when May smiled at him there was a little less worry in her eyes. He started talking to other people in his classes – not a lot, just _hey_ and _good morning_ , the occasional _how are you_ , but it was a start. He logged back into his abandoned Facebook page and accepted Flash’s friend request, even shot him a note, and was surprised when Flash wrote back immediately.

Most importantly, there was the now familiar press of Johnny’s lips against his own, the scent of Johnny’s cologne layered over a lingering smell like freshly extinguished matches. There were dates on top of skyscrapers, races through New York City each of them egging each other on. There were patrols together too. Peter was trying to get used to those. The long afternoons in each other’s bed were his favorites, though, Peter’s eyes closed, just listening to the timbre of Johnny’s voice as he talked about what was next for the Fantastic Four, some argument he’d had with Ben, how things were going with his sister. There was the way Johnny’s warm hands held his when Peter’s were cold.

He even let Mary Jane take him for a ride on her motorcycle as quote-unquote “payback” for webswinging. They headed upstate, until they found roads that were long and empty, lined by rows and rows of trees, where Mary Jane could drive as fast as she wanted while Peter held onto her for dear life.

“I swing better than you drive that thing,” he told her when they stopped for lunch at some little out of the place burger place. It had wooden picnic tables set up outside and they settled at one with an obscene amount of french fries shared between them.

“Whatever delusions make you happy, tiger,” she said, dragging a fry through a puddle of ketchup and popping it in her mouth. She adjusted the collar of her gold faux leather jacket against the chill of the wind as she eyed him critically. “You know, you’re looking better these days. Less lonely.”

Peter hesitated before he replied, staring down at the remaining fries on his plate.

“Did I look lonely, before?” he asked, glancing up at her.

“Maybe not if you don’t know what to look for,” Mary Jane said. She picked at her sparkly red nail polish, fiddled with one of her rings. “Does it feel better? Having me and Johnny know? Letting other people help keep your secrets?”

Peter thought about it.

“Better’s not the right word,” he said at last. “But, yeah. It feels – lighter, I guess. Less alone.”

He smiled ruefully at her. She smiled back, but there was something strained about it.

“Okay, then,” she said. “Here goes.”

Peter listened as she talked, about her parents, about her abusive father and what’d he done to her family, about her sister’s failed marriage and two children somewhere out in Pennsylvania, and how she didn’t talk to Mary Jane anymore. How Mary Jane missed her but didn’t want to be her. About her mother. About how Anna had been the only member of the extended Watson family to ever treat Mary Jane like anything more than a flighty burden.

At the end of the story, she wiped a careful hand underneath her eyes, which were wet, like she was trying not to smear her makeup.

“My biggest secret for yours,” she said. “Better late than never, right?”

Peter reached across the table and put his hand over hers, stilling its trembling.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

Her smile was small. “Anything for a friend. We are friends now, right, tiger?”

“Mary Jane Watson,” he said, grinning. “I’m pretty sure you’re my best friend.”

“Peter Parker,” she said as she turned her hand over in his and laced their fingers together. “Right back at you.”

He couldn’t stop thinking about it the whole way home, his arms wrapped tight around Mary Jane’s waist. Not just her story, but the way she’d revealed it to him, blunt and honest and willing. He’d never done that, not really. Taking the mask off and giving Sue Storm his name had been a gamble, the only thing he could think of in the moment to earn her trust. Johnny had found out trying to save his life. Mary Jane had found out by accident. Even when he’d told Gwen, he’d never been able to get the words out.

But that was just Spider-Man, at the end of the day, and maybe Spider-Man was the easiest secret. The rest of Peter’s secrets went so much deeper than just him.

A week later found him in a subway tunnel, taking point while Johnny walked a little behind him.

“You know,” Johnny said as they navigated the tracks. “When you said you wanted to show me someplace special, I was picturing somewhere that smelled better. Maybe somewhere with, I don’t know, lights.”

“We’ve got lights,” Peter pointed out. He held a flashlight and Johnny held up one of his hands, his fist wrapped in flames. “Come on, it’s only a little bit further.”

“This had better be good,” Johnny said, staring suspiciously at a rat that scampered past them.

Peter could’ve come up with a comeback, but they’d reached Roosevelt, and something about climbing into this little piece of lost history always filled him with a quiet, solemn sort of reverence.

“This is it,” he said as he and Johnny pulled themselves up onto the platform.

“Abandoned subway station,” Johnny said, looking around. He was frowning in confusion. “This some kind of hidden tour of New York thing, Pete? Because I know you love the city and all, but a little warning might be nice. Also? For the record? I’m not having sex with you down here. Not even like a little bit.”

“Shh. Just watch,” Peter said. He drew a subway token from his pocket and rubbed it between his thumb and his forefinger, like a good luck wish. Then he slipped it into the ancient turnstile, listening as it fell with a _clunk_.

There was always a slight delay, a moment where Peter thought that nothing was going to happen, even after all this time. Then the noise came up from underground, a shaking like the approach of a train but from the wrong direction, the grinding of old gears.

Johnny’s eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open as the subway track split open and the car started to rise from underneath. Peter watched him with a barely hidden grin.

“What do you think?” he said. “Worth the trip?”

“Hell yes,” he said. “I’m totally building one of those. How did you even find this?”

“It’s a Parker family original,” Peter said. The doors gave their now familiar pneumatic hiss and he stepped into the train car, running a hand over the wall.

“You _built_ this?” Johnny asked, following after him.

“Not me,” Peter said. “My dad. You like it?”

“It’s amazing. I’m in love with it,” Johnny said, glancing around. Before Peter could make a joke about getting left for an underground hideout, Johnny added, “I thought you said your parents left when you were a kid?”

“They did,” Peter said. “They left clues, though. Took me a while to find out where to look.”

The video of his father’s final message had begun to play, just like it always did. Peter ushered Johnny into the lone seat in front of the screen. He stood behind him, his hands on his shoulders, as the video played out.

It always stung. No one had ever told Peter that finally getting closure also meant stitching up the wound, again and again. It was a good pain, though. The kind he’d rather live with than without. Even though he’d seen the message a dozen times over by now, it felt different this time, to be sharing it with someone else.

“You look like him,” Johnny said.

“My uncle told me that, once,” Peter said.

The screen went dark and Johnny twisted to face him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Peter lowered himself to his knees and raised his hand to Johnny’s face. Johnny cupped his own over it, keeping it pressed to his cheek as he stared down at Peter, who struggled to gather the right words.

“All my life,” he said, “I’ve been living with secrets. My whole life, there were things about me I didn’t know, things that were kept from me, things my aunt and uncle didn’t even know. And then I had the spider. What I can do. The mask.” He swallowed hard. “My aunt told me once that secrets have a cost. Maybe --”

He broke off with a swallow, shaking his head.

“Maybe what?” Johnny asked. He rubbed his thumb over Peter’s knuckles, staring down at him with those embers deep in his eyes, and Peter felt a fierce surge of belonging. Like coming home to a place he hadn’t known he’d been longing for.

“Maybe I’m not willing to pay for all of them anymore,” he said, and leaned up to kiss Johnny.

It was a good kiss, steady and full of passion, smoldering just under the surface. It was a kiss that was a promise. Peter broke it and rested his forehead against Johnny’s, his thumb stroking restlessly against Johnny’s cheek.

“You finding out who Spider-Man was never my plan,” he said. “But showing you this? This part of me? That’s my choice.”

Their lips met again, even as Johnny let out a quiet, startled laugh.

“Did anyone ever tell you how hot you are under fluorescent lights?” he asked, knocking his nose into Peter’s, and suddenly Peter was laughing too.

“No,” he said. “I’ve never gotten that one before.”

“Peter, your secrets -- I want to be with you,” Johnny said, gone suddenly serious, a look of concern in his eyes. “I love _you_. I don’t want you to change who you are.”

Peter let the weight of that anchor him, here, under those buzzing fluorescent lights, as he glanced around the heart of his father’s secret double life. That’s what he’d been missing. An anchor. He wasn’t changing who he was, he thought, staring at a long dead spider instead a glass canister. He was just evolving. He put his hand on Johnny’s knee and met his gaze.

“You know who I am,” he said, damp-eyed and grinning.

* * *

“Peter Benjamin Parker!” May called up the stairs. “You’re going to be late!”

“Oh, middle name,” Peter snickering to himself, semi-hysterically, as he pulled his jeans on. “I’m in trouble now.”

“You were in trouble when the alarm went off early and you smashed it,” Johnny said, leaning halfway off of Peter’s bed and digging behind it. “Now you’re just screwed. Here, jacket.”

It hit him in the face, Peter too busy stuffing things into his backpack to bother with snatching it out of the air.

“I don’t need a jacket,” Peter said as he shrugged it on. “Other webshooter, other webshooter, come on, if I take the subway I’m never gonna make it.”

“I’m looking!” Johnny said, accidentally knocking over a stack of books and going with them off the side of Peter’s bed. Peter bit back a wince. “Why’d you make these things so small?”

“Forget it,” Peter said as he pulled his shirt over his head. “I don’t have time for this. Stop destroying my room, please?”

“I’m buying you a shelf,” Johnny said. “Or an apartment.”

Something else toppled over, possibly onto Johnny. Peter fumbled for the electronic lock on his door.

“I’m late,” Peter sang to himself, taking the stairs two at a time. “I’m late, I’m late for a very important test that’s only going to determine my future – oh, thank you, thank you very much.”

May caught him at the banister, pressing a kiss to his cheek as she passed him a sandwich.

“You are _late_ ,” she pointed out.

“Did you not hear the song?” Peter asked. He stuffed as much as the sandwich as would fit into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, listening as Johnny’s footsteps sounded down the stairs. “I got it, I’m late.”

May glanced at Johnny, then gave him a sharp look, like he was about to get the middle name again. Peter wondered if it’d be better or worse that he was late because he’d been having wild sex with his celebrity boyfriend and not because when he’d lost one of his webshooters when he and Johnny had pulled each other through his window late the night before, tired and uncaring about what corner of his room it landed in.

Some Parker luck.

“Morning, Mrs. Parker,” Johnny said, smacking his own kiss to her cheek. He and May had fallen into a comfortable sort of familiarity with each other that Peter half-suspected was going to come back to bite him, somehow. For the present, he was content to watch them standing next to each other.

“Morning,” she replied. She pointed at Peter archly. “He’s late.”

“I have actually figured that part out!” Peter said, hopping on one foot as he tried to pull on his left sneaker and hold onto the remaining third of his sandwich. He finally managed it, stopping with one hand on the doorknob as Johnny whistled at him.

"Hey," Johnny said, catching Peter's face between his palms and pulling him in for a kiss. "You got this. Say it for me."

"I got this," Peter repeated, flat like an automaton, his nose brushing against Johnny's. "I've got this like poison oak, Johnny, I'm doomed."

"I'm not listening to you, because you're a crazy person," Johnny said, kissing him one more time. His hand found Peter’s and he pressed the missing webshooter into it, curling his fingers around it to keep it from sight.

Peter sighed against his mouth. "If I fail, I'm blaming you."

"You got this," Johnny told him again. "Go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm on [tumblr](http://traincat.tumblr.com).


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